


Walk Visible Under the Sun

by weepingnaiad



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-08
Updated: 2010-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-15 10:45:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad/pseuds/weepingnaiad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Summary:</b>  Éomer watches as a strangely clad man kills a warg in mid-leap.  By the time he overtakes them, the blond-haired man is lying silent and broken at the bottom of a ravine and something inside Éomer feels compelled to help him.  Éomer has no idea what he’s willing to risk for the mysterious man with no memories and arresting sky blue eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** I must thank abigail89, whose encouragement and support and wicked fast beta meant so much to me, and hitlikehammers, without whom I would not have had the courage to finish this! Thank you both for everything!
> 
>  **A/N:** Fill for my hurt-comfort bingo card square: _amnesia_ and for [this prompt](http://buckleup-meme.livejournal.com/5309.html?thread=20669#t20669) at the [Kirk/McCoy Kink Meme](http://buckleup-meme.livejournal.com/).
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** These characters and the worlds they live in belong to the Masters, Roddenberry and Tolkien. I am only borrowing them so they can come out and frolic a bit, not intending any copyright infringement of any sort. I do own my original characters, but they are available for parties!

  


*~*

 _I have lived to see strange days. Long we have tended our beasts and our fields, built our houses, wrought our tools, or ridden away to help in the wars of Minas Tirith. And that we called the life of Men, the way of the world. We cared little for what lay beyond the borders of our land. Songs we have that tell of these things, but we are forgetting them, teaching them only to children, as a careless custom. And now the songs have come down among us out of strange places, and walk visible under the Sun.  
 **The Lord of the Rings**  
King Théoden, in 'The Road to Isengard'_

*~*

McCoy walked into the transporter room, his steps deliberate and focused as he tried to keep his rampant emotions at bay. He halted when he noticed the room was empty.

“Scotty? Mister Kyle? Spock? Where the hell is everyone?” he called out while ducking his head under the transporter, only to be met with the sharp rap of someone’s knuckles hitting metal and then loud cursing, the distinctive Scottish accent and colorful phrases familiar and almost comforting in their sheer normalcy.

McCoy stepped around the transporter panel and noted that Scotty was gripping his hand and glaring up at him from the floor, while Spock still had his head in the bowels of the machine.

“Wha’ do ye want, Doctor?” Scotty snapped.

Spock then extracted himself from the transporter and arose effortlessly. “Doctor. The status has not changed. I did tell you that you would be immediately informed when we had the transporter operational once again.”

“Dammit, Spock! Jim’s out there… god knows where! It’s been a week already!” McCoy was now gesturing wildly.

“It has been five point seven days, Doctor. I can assure you we are doing all that we can to return the captain to his rightful place. I would appreciate it if you would see to your duties instead of disturbing Mister Scott from his.”

Spock was impassive and stiff. His lack of inflection would have pissed McCoy off, but even he could see that Spock was as overtaxed as the rest of the crew, if not moreso. No one was resting with Jim lost to a transporter malfunction, especially not Spock.

McCoy huffed out a worried breath and held his tongue. “I’m sorry, Spock. It’s just… we have no idea where Jim is. He could be hurt or…”

Spock straightened and placed his hands behind his back. “The captain is well versed in survival techniques. He scored quite high on the extreme environment exercises, setting records for speed of return. The probabilities are quite high that the captain is alive and well, Doctor.”

McCoy sighed, his shoulders drooping. “Dammit, Spock, I sure hope so.”

~~*~~

“Cousin!”

Éomer heard the ringing shout just seconds before being grabbed tightly, his back pounded and the air squeezed from his lungs in a death grip.

“Théodred! How long have you been returned?” Éomer answered with a hearty squeeze of his own and then stepped back to clasp his cousin’s arm, a wide smile greeting his shield-brother.

“Long enough to hear rumors… ‘tis true that you have brought a magician into the keep? Or is it an elf? Possibly one of the enemy? A fey creature of the White Mountains?” Théodred was grinning widely, near laughing at Éomer’s growing discomfiture. “I hear tell that you have found the most beautiful creature in the Mark and are keeping her hidden, squirreled away solely for your pleasure.” He laughed out loud and Éomer joined in, shaking his head at the nonsense that gossip so quickly grew into.

“He is none of those!”

Théodred clapped him on the shoulder. “Well at least now I know the rumors are based on some shred of fact and the gender of this mysterious being. But, of truth, I did not believe them, could not fathom _you_ of all people bringing a stranger here. Not in such times.”

Éomer merely shrugged, unable to answer why it had been so important that the man be saved. He resumed his course, Théodred easily matching his long strides through the stone keep. “He is… unusual, I will give you that, but he is no enemy.”

They stopped at a guest chamber, two guards flanking the large, rough hewn door, immediately straightened and saluted. “Highness!”

“Just open the damn door. I have ridden long and have things on my mind other than whatever fledgling the Third Marshall dragged in.” Théodred waved impatiently at the guards, one of whom immediately pushed open the door.

Théodred strode in, stopping at the foot of the bed to appraise their ‘guest’ with wary eyes.

Éomer closed the door and turned, only to be confronted with his sister sitting next to the stranger. He gritted his teeth and met Théodred’s eyes, but said nothing as he leaned against the bedpost. Éowyn was being her usual stubborn self, nothing that should surprise him, so he crossed his arms and waited.

She deliberately ignored the two men, instead keeping her attention focused on the injured man as she wiped his fevered brow with a wet cloth. His eyes fluttered open and he gazed up at Éowyn from under long lashes.

“What happened?” he croaked out in heavily accented Westron.

Éomer swallowed. He had not heard the man speak, had not seen him conscious up close, but his voice sent a sharp spike down Éomer’s spine, and his eyes… The man had the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. Even glazed and unfocused from the ravages of the fever, they were a startling blue that rivaled the wide open skies above the plains. He sucked in a sharp breath, but did not dare turn to look at Théodred for fear of revealing how deeply the stranger affected him.

Éowyn smiled softly down at the man. “Shhh. You are safe. Sleep, so that you will heal.” She carded gentle hands through his hair and wiped his face and brow one last time. The brilliant blue eyes fluttered closed, the long lashes drifting down to rest against fine, high cheek bones.

Only once she had settled their guest back into the pillows did she turn. Éomer glared, but before he could chastise his sister, Théodred stepped into Éowyn’s line of sight. “Théo!” She gave a happy cry and was up like a shot, quickly buried in Théodred’s embrace. “When did you return?” she whispered after disentangling herself from her cousin. She tugged him across the large room, toward the unlit fireplace.

“Not long ago, but long enough to hear rumors. What are you doing here?” Théodred asked in a restrained voice.

“She is flouting my orders!” Éomer answered, shooting Éowyn a dark glare, as he stalked closer.

Éowyn tossed her long golden mane over her shoulder as she lifted her chin defiantly. “Would you rather I have let Gríma tend him? His idea of healing is leeches, bleeding, or worse.” She shuddered. “He needed none of that. Warg’s claws are poisoned, the scratches were deep. Few survive them, fewer still if they have been recipients of Gríma’s care.”

Éomer glared at Éowyn. It mattered not whether she was right. “Still. We know nothing of him. He could be dangerous. Or, did you think I placed guards at his door for their health?!”

“Fah! He is weaker than a newborn kitten!” Éowyn straightened, stood as tall as she could and met his glare with an icy one of her own.

“And what if it is merely an act? A falsehood to lull you into behaving foolishly as you have so readily done?” Éomer had her. He could see her wavering and pushed harder. “You did not see his weapon! He shot fire from it, stopping a warg in mid-strike!”

Éowyn swallowed, but did not back down. “I give you that, brother, but… he is not evil! Do you think I am a half-wit?” she hissed. “Even were he to strike out, I can handle him!”

Éomer rolled his eyes and gave Théodred a narrowed gaze before returning his full attention to his sister. “Just go. If you insist on playing nursemaid, then at least bring guards into the room with you!”

Éowyn lifted her chin to argue, but Théodred placed a warning hand on her shoulder. “Just go, ‘Wyn.” She wilted under the softly worded command.

Giving a curt nod, she turned on her heels and left, her eyes shooting daggers at her brother.

“You will have to make amends, Cousin. She hates to be coddled.” Théodred dropped into the large leather armchair by the window and shook his head, before waving Éomer to join him.

Éomer sprawled in the indicated chair, his eyes drifting to the bed. “I will not apologize for protecting her,” he said as he crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at his cousin.

“Fine, then. I shall, yet again, be the peace maker between you.”

“Trouble maker, you mean. If you had not taught her the sword, made her think that she could be a warrior…”

Théodred threw his hands up. “I was a youth! What did you expect of me?” But he smiled, completely unrepentant. It was an old, well worn argument. He settled back into the chair and gave Éomer an intent stare. “Now, tell me of this man…”

~~*~~

Éomer had not relished Théodred’s reaction. He knew that his cousin would not be best pleased with his decision to bring the stranger here, into the very heart of their land, into their home where the king was wasting away, turning into an empty husk of his former self. What he had been unprepared for were the offhand comments, the gentle barbs that revealed that Théodred knew more about Éomer’s predilection than Éomer had suspected.

His mind racing, he sank into the chair by the stranger’s bed and stared at the beautiful features, his eyes roaming appreciatively over the fair skin and firmly muscled chest and arms. He remembered picking up the fallen man, the weight of the strong body against his chest, the odd feel of the strange material under his hands, how the man’s short hair was soft against his neck.

He reached out, wanting to stroke his hands over a muscled bicep, but he stopped, his palm skimming close enough to feel the fever radiating from pale skin before he dropped it onto his thigh. No good could come of these feelings, the yearning this mysterious stranger fueled in him.

Éomer shook his head and stood to leave, but the man’s hand shot out and grabbed his own. His grasp was weak, but it rooted Éomer to the spot instantly, the fire it ignited forcing him to turn.

Blue eyes were blinking slowly at him. “Don’t go!” he husked through chapped lips, and Éomer knew he was lost.

He huffed out a breath and reached for the cup of water. Carefully, he lifted the stranger’s head, gave him a few sips to cool his parched throat before gently easing him back to the pillows. “Shhh. I’ll not leave you alone.”

“Bones?” the stranger asked. “Where?”

Éomer was puzzled by the man asking for ‘bones’, but he suspected it was more that his Westron was heavily accented and Éomer had little cause to use the language of Gondor. “You are in Edoras. You were attacked by a foul beast and hit your head when you fell. Do you remember?”

The stranger licked his lips and shook his head before he drifted back to sleep without comment, his hand still wrapped around Éomer’s wrist. He was a puzzle, a mystery that Éomer should avoid, but he could not stop staring at the man and he knew that he would stay at his side until he was healed and returned to whence he came.

Éomer settled into the chair to keep vigil and resolutely tried to force his thoughts from straying too near paths that they should not tread, but then Théodred’s admonishment would return and Éomer would shift uncomfortably. _’He does have lips made to suck cock and the bluest eyes I have ever seen. No wonder you brought him here. He is too pretty by far, but do not forget yourself and let it cloud your judgment, Cousin.’_

Éomer sighed. It was far too late for that. His judgment had been impaired from the moment he met the stranger’s eyes.

~~*~~

The stranger was heartier than he first seemed; his lithe, muscled build concealed a surprising strength and astonishing ability to heal. The fever burned itself out on the fourth day, and Éomer met stunningly clear eyes gazing at him when he stepped into his room.

Éowyn carried a tray with an empty bowl and wet cloths. She nudged Éomer as she passed. “He has found his voice, but remembers nothing,” she whispered. “He tires easily so do not press too hard.”

Éomer nodded at her, his eyes never leaving the stranger.

Turning back to the man, she smiled gently. “My brother is not the fearsome lout he seems and mayhap he can aid your memory. But do not overtax yourself. Your shoulder is healing well. I would like to keep it that way.”

Éowyn and the guards left, the door closing with a resounding click. And Éomer found himself alone with an enigma that stirred him as no one ever had. “You will find that I am no diplomat. Sword, spear, bow, those are my weapons, so I will speak plain, warrior to warrior.” He stated coolly before sitting beside the man, who continued to watch him with unblinking interest.

“I am a warrior?” the man asked softly, his brows knitting together.

“You used a fearsome weapon against the warg, so I assumed as much.” Éomer kept his hands flat on his thighs. “Can you tell me how you came to be in the middle of the Riddermark?”

“The Riddermark?” he curled his tongue around the syllables, said them clearly even through his heavy accent. “I… I do not remember…” he hesitated and looked up at Éomer, his face stricken.

Éomer dug his fingers into his thighs to keep from reaching out and soothing away the obvious confusion and turmoil from the man. Éomer wanted to protect him, heal him, hold him. Instead he asked more gently, “Do you remember your name? Or even something of your home? A landmark, perhaps?”

The stranger shook his head and dropped his face between his hands, his muffled, “Nothing,” was barely audible.

Éomer took the chance and reached out, gently pulling one hand from the stranger’s face so that their eyes could meet. He was instantly surprised by how velvety soft his skin was. This man was not used to hard labor, his hands were smoother than Éowyn’s!

Without conscious thought, he was rubbing his thumb over the smooth palm, gentling and calming, until he turned his hand and his thumb skimmed over roughened knuckles. Not so delicate, then. He offered a teasing smile, “Then we shall have to come up with a name for you, until you remember your own.”

“I’d like that,” the man answered, his smile stealing Éomer’s breath, the shock of its power over him set his head spinning.

Éomer blinked and hastily looked away. Before he could pull his hand away the man had intertwined their fingers, tugging Éomer’s attention back to him. He met the blue, blue eyes and croaked out the first name that came to him, “Léoht. It means ‘light’ in my tongue.”

“Léoht,” the stranger repeated. He gave Éomer another blinding smile and Éomer’s heart soared. “I like it. Thank you.”

Éomer basked in the bright glow of Jim’s regard. They talked for awhile, the time passing swiftly as Éomer answered Jim’s questions until he was yawning and barely able to keep his eyes open. He protested, but Éomer silenced him with a promise to return.

Jim slipped into dreams under Éomer’s watchful eye. Once the man was asleep, Éomer risked a gentle caress of his lightly stubbled jaw and a quick press of lips to his brow before he left.

~~*~~

Éomer stepped into the room and heard a pained grunt and a splash, accompanied by a squeaked out, “Doesn’t anyone knock around here?” He grinned as he caught a glimpse of pale skin before Jim slid back into the tub.

Éowyn piped up from beside the bed, “You have nothing I have not seen before.” She laughed as she turned away from the bed where she was laying out Jim’s clothes. Catching Éomer’s eyes, she leaned close. “But I imagine he has much _you’d_ wish to see.” A wickedly teasing smile made Éomer flush hotly just as she had intended.

“Could I please have a towel?” Jim called out. “And a razor?”

Éowyn pressed a heated towel into Éomer’s hands, the spark in her eyes replaced by a worried frown as she spoke in quiet tones, “Be careful, ‘Mer, Gríma has been snooping around, asking questions…”

Éomer huffed out a harsh breath and gritted his teeth, but hugged his sister, his own reply buried in her long blond hair. “Then it is a good thing that the guards are none but my own.”

“A towel? Please?”

Éowyn held Éomer’s eyes for an instant before stepping to the side of the tub. She patted Jim on the shoulder even as he was sliding under the water, the flannel gripped tightly in an attempt to cover his lap. Éowyn had to bite her cheek to keep from laughing aloud, but answered him with casual indifference. “I will leave you in Éomer’s capable hands, but you must rest. You are not fully recovered and any _strenuous activities_ will lead to a relapse.”

Jim’s eyes widened and he flushed, but gave a curt nod, willingly agreeing to anything if Éowyn would but leave. Éomer turned away to hide his own reaction to seeing Jim thusly. His body was not aided by his sister’s innuendo.

When the door finally clicked closed leaving the room silent, Jim sighed aloud. Éomer quickly moved to his side and offered Jim a hand up. “Do you truly wish to shave? You will blend in more easily if you do not.”

Jim merely looked at Éomer’s outstretched hand, before shrugging it away as he purposefully gripped the sides of the tub. “Fine. Just… turn around… please?”

Éomer’s lips quirked, but he bit back the chuckle at the flush creeping up Jim’s neck. Instead he turned, but still held the towel. The water sloshed as Jim stood and he heard him exhale a shaky breath. Slowly he pivoted with the towel spread wide to protect his modesty. “You have nothing that I have not seen before, either, Léoht.” His eyes were soft and his smile gentle. He did not wish to spook the man, having no idea what his values were, even if he often felt Jim’s eyes following, lingering on him.

Jim reached for the towel and wrapped it about his torso, but he swayed, still weak, and Éomer grasped his elbow, steadying him.

“I’m not an invalid,” Jim snapped.

Éomer merely looked at Jim, but did not remove his hand. “Nay, not an invalid, but one who does not know it is no weakness to ask for aid. You have lain abed for this past sevenday. You are not yet healed and weak as an hour old foal. Do you wish to invite further injury?”

Jim opened his mouth to protest, but he tripped on an upturned edge of the large throw rug and careened into Éomer, who easily caught him and wrapped him up in strong arms.

Their faces were mere breaths apart. Éomer swallowed, felt himself falling into bluest depths. As he stared into Jim’s eyes, it was like racing the plains on Firefoot, endless azure skies above a sea of golden grain, and he was flying between them. Jim’s lips beckoned and Éomer was not strong enough to resist. His hands cupped warm, wet skin as he leaned forward, felt Jim’s breath on his skin…

A sharp clatter in the hallway shattered the moment and both men caught themselves, pulling away.

Jim dropped onto the bed, the towel parting to reveal pale thighs and giving no cover to the bulge now rising from his core. “Tease,” he huffed out softly, his chest heaving as he leaned up on his elbows.

Éomer was torn, wanted to touch, to taste, to see what more might happen, but he turned away, bit his cheek until it bled, the sharp iron tang waking him from the spell Jim had placed him under. “Éowyn has left you small clothes for sleeping in. They should fit well enough…” His voice was strained and harsh. He had to quit thinking of the stranger in this manner!

“And if I prefer to sleep completely naked?”

Éomer took two steps away from the bed, his fists clenching and releasing at his sides. “Do not…” he started, but could not finish the thought. He had forgotten himself and turned to look at Jim, the sight stealing his breath. “You… What power do you have over me?”

Jim was not sleeping naked. Instead he had thrown off the towel and was sliding long, lean legs into the cotton breeches. They were snug and clung to his damp skin, managed to clearly highlight his shapely thighs and rather impressive bulge. He smirked at Éomer. “You like what you see?”

Éomer swallowed, the bobbing of his throat the only movement as he stared, transfixed, as Jim glided his hands over his torso until he pressed a flattened palm over his already formidable bulge.

“I can see you want me. Why do you fight it? Afraid you can’t handle me?”

That was more than Éomer could take. He could no more refuse a blatant challenge than he could stop riding. In two long strides he was upon Jim, pressing him into the mattress as he caught Jim’s face between two large hands, his plump lips so close, but still he hesitated. “Tell me that you want this… that it is not forbidden to you.” Éomer could barely speak over his burning lungs, but he could not breathe while he waited for Jim’s answer, his eyes blazing with more than mere desire.

He had been attracted to men before, but no one in his remembrance had ever kicked him in the gut like Jim. He was Third Marshall of the Riddermark and yet this fair-skinned, pale-eyed beauty could demand that he kneel and he would, he knew it with a frightening certainty.

Jim reached up, tangled one hand in Éomer’s hair, pulling him close while the other wrapped around his waist. His blue eyes glowed with near unholy light as his lips skimmed over Éomer’s cheeks and up to his ear, the drag of his stubble shooting fire down Éomer’s spine. “I want this, want you. Need to see you come undone because of me. I’ve never known such heat before…”

When he pulled back, Éomer groaned desperately and followed, his lips parted and eyes dark but still he did not press their lips together.

“What are you waiting for?” Jim huffed out, still pushing.

The kiss was fiery, explosive, desperate and hungry, and neither wanted to be the first to pull away. Jim tugged on Éomer’s hair and wormed a hand under his clothes until he could rest a cool palm on heated skin. The touch drove Éomer near mad and he pressed a knee between Jim’s spread thighs, deepened the kiss, even as spots flitted across his eyes. He was wild from the sounds Jim was making, from the very scent of him, how he arched and moaned and writhed. It was freeing and intense and near terrifying to one who had never been so out of control before.

Finally, his vision swam and he wrenched his mouth away from Jim’s. Gasping he rested on his elbows, placed carefully on either side of Jim’s head. “You… you are…”

Jim was panting, but he smirked at Éomer, kept his hand pressed against warm skin, felt the thundering heart begin to slow even as he arched against Éomer’s thigh. “Fuck! If you can do that with just a kiss… not sure I can take more… but damn, do I want to find out!”

Éomer gave a half smile and pressed a soft kiss to the little upward quirk at the corner of Jim’s lips. “You are not yet recovered…” he protested and tried to pull away, but Jim held him, wrapped strong legs around his thighs.

“Stay! Please, God, don’t go! I need you!”

Éomer’s whole body responded to the plea and they both groaned with need when he pressed down, seizing Jim’s lips once again.

Barely able to restrain himself, Éomer knew that Jim was not healed enough for what they both craved, so he lifted his head, nipped gently at the full lips, whispered softly, “Shhh, I will take care of you…”

“Please,” Jim moaned and Éomer nodded, eagerly agreeing as he skated his hands over the pale skin. He bent his head and lapped at the drops of water pooled in the hollow of Jim’s throat. The man’s skin was soft under his questing hands and he mapped out each sensitive spot, noted two small scars, and marveled at the wide expanse of perfect, flawless flesh. Éomer spread his hands wide, allowed his thumbs to flick idly over the light brown nubs, which perked up under his attention. He felt the strong heart beat under his palms, pressed firmly, capturing and holding onto the proof of Jim’s existence. Here, with him.

Éomer had to taste, so he set himself to the task of teasing out more of the soft moans and desperate whimpers that were falling like rain from lush lips. Jim’s taste and scent were a heady elixir and Éomer soon dropped to his knees, Jim completely naked before him, lean thighs resting on his shoulders and his face buried beneath Jim’s stiff cock.

With his large hands he spread Jim’s thighs, ran a flattened, wide tongue from the tip of his erection downward, languorously teasing. He laved each sac, sucking and rolling them around in his mouth, the taste of lye soap mingling with a sharp tang, a flavor that was solely Jim and oh-so arousing. He breathed deeply through his nose, savoring Jim’s spice.

Éomer opened his mouth, let the warm flesh slide from his mouth, lips spit shiny as he looked up and met Jim’s eyes, blown wide and dark, his full lips parted around a soft gasp. Éomer wanted and needed, slid his tongue lower, farther, past the base of his cock, nipped at the sensitive flesh before he dove lower and lapped at the heat of Jim, the dark scent calling to him.

The pucker fluttered and he stabbed in his tongue, seeking more of Jim’s intoxicating flavor. With a sharp cry he bucked and writhed under Éomer’s attention. Éomer held him firmly as he kept thrusting, lapping, nipping; Jim’s thighs spread wide in invitation and a steady litany of begging and cursing flew from his lips.

Éomer could take no more, he lifted his head and swallowed the proud cock, sucking firmly as he pressed his thumbs into the slick channel. Jim thrashed and tangled his hands in Éomer’s hair, pulling and holding until he came with a low groan, spilling his seed deeply down Éomer’s throat. Éomer swallowed, coughed and sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth on his arm.

He reached for a cup of water and gulped it down while willing his body to quiet. He panted softly as he stared at the debauched man sprawled on the bed, legs and arms akimbo, chest heaving, eyes closed as he tried to regain his breath. “Beautiful,” he breathed.

Jim was boneless, could not lift his arms and barely had the strength to open his eyes. He gave Éomer a dazed smile. “Fuck me raw… that was…” he huffed out, his voice hoarse.

Éomer chuckled and levered himself up, leaned over to kiss Jim. “Wondrous? What is that word you use?” he paused for effect, then grinned, teasing. “Oh, yes… was it awesome?”

Jim blinked a few times as he melted into the bed, the look on his face filling places within him that Éomer had not realized were barren. Then Jim’s eyes widened as he noted that Éomer was fully clad. “All that… and more. But… what of you?”

Éomer silenced him with another soft kiss. “I can wait until you are strong enough, then I will show you what more I am capable of.”

Jim was already half asleep, but murmured contentedly into Éomer’s shoulder, “I can hardly wait.”

Éomer tucked him in carefully, pressed a tender kiss to his lips and closed eyelids. “Sleep now, bright eyes. Rest.” He pulled away reluctantly. Jim was too tempting by far and he had lost his head, gotten carried away. Luckily the rooms near this were not occupied and his guards were discreet and utterly loyal to him, but next time… next time they must be well and truly alone, away from prying eyes and ears.

~~*~~

Éomer watched Jim’s form with appreciative glances. The other man rode easily, effortlessly kept Hasufel well in hand, the reins resting loose in his palm, his body moved with his mount, never fought against it. Another mystery to add to the many that surrounded the stranger.

Éomer chuckled to himself, shaking his head as the wind whipped past. Jim could no longer be called a stranger, not to him at least, not when he had mapped every inch of Jim’s whip chord lean frame, first with his hands, then with his tongue. He had discovered that tender spot just where jaw met earlobe, learned the mewling sounds a sharp nip followed by soothing lips could cause. Then he would continue to tease and taste, cataloging each spot where the tenor of Jim’s appreciative moans would change to gasps and deep groans. He would linger there, marking and claiming for himself, never wanting another to know Jim when he was in the throws of passion.

Éomer had never had the freedom to fully explore his desires, had never had the luxury of time or such a willing and eager partner. Jim was a revelation, a freeing mixture of coy teasing, confident sensuality, and demanding lust. And now for the first time since Jim had been declared completely fit, they were riding away from the keep, able to be truly alone, and Éomer could have what he had wanted, nay _needed_ from the first: complete and total possession of Jim.

The mere thought sent his cock pulsing and they were still an hour’s ride from the waterfall. Éomer needed a distraction.

He looked over, gauged Jim’s ability, his confidence, knew Hasufel was well trained, would rise to Firefoot’s challenge, even though the older stallion had no chance of besting his mount. Éomer waited until Jim looked at him, drank in the beauty of Jim’s unfettered smile, then gave Jim a mischievous grin of his own. “Shall we race?” He arched an eyebrow in question, saw Jim shift in the saddle, the subtle clenching of his thighs. Éomer laughed. At least Jim was no pushover.

“Last to the treeline is an orc!” Éomer cried out and Jim shot off, surprising him, but he urged Firefoot forward and the stallion leapt to the chase, hungry to run. Warm, bright laughter burst from Éomer’s chest as they near flew over the plains. He had not had such fun in far too long.

Firefoot beat Hasufel and Jim leapt off the older stallion’s back, his eyes flashing, grin wicked as he advanced on Éomer.

Éomer turned, but was not quick enough to dodge Jim and he was tackled. They rolled into the pool, soaking their clothes and making him splutter and cough as he sucked in a lungful of water. He arose slowly, eyes shooting daggers at Jim who smiled, completely unrepentant even as he ducked out from Éomer’s grasp. Jim tripped, careened into Éomer, taking them both down again.

Éomer sat in the pool and pushed the hair out of his face as he tipped his head back and laughed, his whole being filled with mirth. Jim straddled his hips and lapped at the drops sliding down his skin, making Éomer shiver. “Léoht,” he warned as he tightened his arms around Jim’s lithe, muscled body.

“Éomer,” Jim breathed, his lips latching onto Éomer’s neck, teeth dragging against the sensitive skin.

Éomer got his revenge when he tipped Jim over, dumped him in the water before standing and moving to Firefoot’s side. Jim glared at him, looked even more gorgeous soaking wet and petulant, and Éomer shrugged, eyes dancing. “Have you not learned to be ever vigilant?”

Jim growled, his eyes sparkling, as he hauled himself out of the water. He stalked to Éomer’s side, peeling his sodden leathers and shirt off as he moved closer. Wet cloth slapped Éomer in the face and Jim laughed. “Ever vigilant, my ass!”

Éomer just rolled his eyes and shook his head, trying to keep from smiling at Jim as he unloaded the saddle bags and set down the picnic basket. He had not taken a day off, just _played_ in so long that he could not recall the last time he’d felt so carefree. “You may as well strip off the rest and hang them all in the trees to dry. I will hobble the horses downstream.”

Jim wolf-whistled after him as he led Firefoot and Hasufel away. Éomer could not restrain the urge and turning, stuck his tongue out at Jim.

When Éomer returned, Jim had laid out the blanket underneath a tall, black walnut tree, the sun dappled his bare skin where he was splayed on the soft cloth. Éomer’s mouth watered at the sight, all that pale skin, rose-colored nipples, and semi-erect cock on display for him and him alone.

Blue eyes opened and Jim arched, stretching, before he leaned up on his elbows, spreading his legs in invitation. He was gorgeous and well aware of it, justifiably arrogant like the mearas. This was his domain, Jim was in charge, and he knew it, but Éomer was no pushover for all that he had been felled by Jim’s enticing beauty and bright smile.

Éomer stopped, cocked his head and met Jim’s eyes. Once Jim’s focus was on him, he slowly stripped off his clothes. The sodden cloth clung and left wet trails as Éomer took his time, slowly drew out the moment and grinned as Jim’s hot gaze was riveted to his newly bared flesh.

Éomer tossed his shirt aside, revealing a wide, muscled chest, drops of water caught in the sparse hair between dusky nipples. Jim fidgeted, shifted, but his hungry gaze did not waver as Éomer kept him pinned with dark eyes.

He shucked his boots and then ever so deliberately slithered out of his wet leggings; drops sliding down his torso to soak into his cotton small clothes. He draped the pants over a nearby branch before taking two steps forward, to stand on the blanket between Jim’s ankles.

Jim looked up and licked his lips as Éomer’s hands chased the drops, his breath speeding up and his eyes widening when Éomer unlaced his breeches, pushing them down past his hardening cock to rest under his bollocks. Their eyes were locked together as Éomer licked his palm and began to stroke himself. The picture that he made: naked but for his small clothes, standing over Jim and stroking himself wrenched a soft moan from Jim’s lips.

But Jim was not one to sit idly by and be teased. He inhaled sharply and licked his lips before holding up the pot of salve, his smile wicked and promising all manner of debauchery as he scooped some out. He spread his legs further and began to tease his puckered opening, moaning like a cheap harlot when one finger breached. Éomer tore off his small clothes and pressed himself down onto Jim, stopping his fingers. “Mine,” he growled, unable to hold back.

Éomer seized Jim’s lips as he intertwined their fingers, kissing had never felt like this before. He sought out Jim’s opening as he slid one finger in alongside Jim’s, dragging a sweet moan from his lungs. Éomer swallowed it down, stole Jim’s breath for his own, his tongue mapping Jim’s mouth while his finger dragged over his prostate. Jim bucked and writhed, nearly dislodging Éomer, but he pressed his knees against Jim’s arse, his fingers questing and probing, intent on drawing more of the sweet sounds from him. He pushed a second finger in, twisted it, teasing the nubby flesh with light touches.

Jim groaned and grabbed Éomer’s biceps, pulled him close, pressing his lips to Éomer’s ear. “Fuck me now, or I won’t be held responsible for the consequences.”

Éomer gasped, stilling, breathed in harsh breaths until he could regain the upper hand. Jim was too tempting, too teasing, too untamed, and Éomer only dreamt he was running the show. Jim was in command and proved it yet again. Éomer merely nodded, helpless to do anything but exactly what Jim demanded of him. He dragged fingers through the pot, gathered salve and hastily coated his arousal.

It was too soon and not the way he’d planned, but Jim whimpered once he was no longer filled, Éomer was a mere mortal, unable to resist Jim completely bared to him, his thighs parted wide, knees bumping his chest. He lined up and slid in; Jim’s body welcomed him, grasped him greedily. Jim arched up, impaled himself until Éomer was buried balls’ deep and the world spun madly as he tried to breathe, tried to slow down.

“Fuck!” Jim’s voice was low, husky, and filled with far too much that Éomer refused to think about, but Jim clenched around him and he cried out, “Léoht!” his arms trembling as he held himself back, kept from pounding into his lover.

Jim was having none of that. He wanted Éomer and reached up, tugged on a shaky bicep, wrapped a hand around Éomer’s neck, and pulled him into a heated kiss, his hips stuttering upward. “Move, damn you,” he growled and bit at Éomer’s bottom lip.

Éomer swallowed, met blue eyes dark with desire, wide with lust, and he snapped his hips, pulled out until his cock head teased the fluttering muscles, toyed with them. He slammed in, ripping a harsh groan from Jim and a cry of “More!” before he started in earnest, pistoning his hips to the sweet sounds of Jim’s pleasure.

But it had been too long since he’d done this, and really he’d never done _this,_ not with someone that filled him with such wonder and warmth. He knew it was going to end too soon. He already wanted to crawl into Jim, just stay there ‘til the stars went dark and all of Arda crumbled around them. Jim arched and whined and Éomer grasped his neglected cock, began to tug even as his own thrusts grew irregular. Suddenly Jim wrapped his legs around Éomer’s waist, pulled him in tight and the world exploded in a kaleidoscope of blues as his release subsumed him.

Éomer blinked. Jim’s dazed smile was so close, he had to touch, but his hands were numb, so he kissed the sleepy lips, murmured his own secrets, keeping them close so that Jim would not know how deeply he affected Éomer. He was not yet ready to reveal himself, not when deep inside he knew Jim could not stay, did not belong in Rohan.

He toppled to the side, sprawled, panting, as he stared up through the tree branches. Finally when the world stopped spinning and his body stopped twitching and sparking with aftershocks, he turned and looked up at Jim. The bright smile and shining eyes warmed him, nourished his soul, fed him well and truly.

Éomer sighed, his whole being was relaxed and languid, but growing sticky and Jim had to be worse. He pushed himself up to his knees, offered Jim his hand, “We should take a dip. Wash, then eat.”

“You done with me already?” Jim grinned, his smirk made Éomer’s groin tighten.

Éomer leaned down, whispered into Jim’s ear before sucking a mark into that one spot that made Jim shiver. He smiled around the tender flesh as he heard Jim inhale sharply. Standing, he again offered Jim his hand. “Hardly. I intend to make sure that riding back will be a most _unpleasant_ exercise for you.”

Jim took his hand and hopped upright, pulling him close until they were chest to chest. “And who’s to say that the ride will only be a problem for me?”

Éomer gasped, caught off guard. “Bastard!” he cried out, but Jim was already diving into the pond and completely ignoring Éomer’s sudden aroused state. Or, more likely, he was doing it on purpose. Éomer had never met anyone like Jim, never known anyone so confident and comfortable with his body and his sexuality. It was liberating and Éomer was determined to enjoy every moment with him and in every possible way.

Shouting a war cry, Éomer rushed to the water’s edge and jumped in, thoroughly drenching Jim with a huge wave. They wrestled and tangled, the water not an ideal location for their activities, but Jim proved that he could hold his breath for far longer than Éomer would have believed possible. And when he was sated and floating languidly in the water, Jim’s incandescent eyes and hard arousal told him all he needed to know.

Without words they moved to the blanket, Jim pressing Éomer into the sun warmed cloth. He took Éomer slowly and with a care that the Horse-lord had not known, bringing him gradually to his peak and then stopping, tightening the reins so that he did not release. Jim was a skilled and attentive lover and easily had Éomer begging, but he was generous and diligent and Éomer was soon dozing in the warm sun.

The day drifted lazily by as they spent it wrapped up in each other, talking, making love, wrestling, and eating. It was idyllic and would nourish Éomer in all the dark days to come, would keep him whole and remind him just what exactly he was fighting for when despair seemed all he had.

As the sun dipped low on the horizon, Éomer rued the ending of their respite from prying eyes and duty. He wanted nothing more than to stay here and idle his days away, but duty called and he would never abandon his people, not even for Jim and a peaceful, bucolic existence. He could dawdle through the night. They would not be missed as long as they returned by the dawn. With that in mind, he gathered the horses, and tethered them nearby.

When he returned, he dropped down beside Jim, who was leaning back on his elbows, stretched out in the cool night air, his eyes transfixed by the night sky. Jim cocked his head and looked at Éomer, smiling warmly, his eyes crinkling, and Éomer was reminded once again why he had taken this time, why he had risked much to be alone with Jim.

“Do you ever think about the stars, ‘Mer? About what they are? What it is like?”

Éomer frowned, confused by the question, because, in truth, he had never considered the stars, their distant light seemed cold and unfriendly to his eyes. He was a creature of earth and sun, not of moon and stars. He shook his head. “Nay, I have not thought of them. They are not of use to me.” He shrugged.

Jim tilted, turned to Éomer before clambering behind him. Suddenly he was wrapped in Jim’s arms and legs, was leaning against a firm, warm chest. “Can I tell you what I see?”

Éomer was surprised by the restrained delight in Jim’s voice, by his childlike eagerness. Jim was always enthusiastic, threw himself into anything he tried, but this… this was different. This might help Jim’s memory return, and part of Éomer was pleased at that prospect, while another part of him cringed, his stomach clenching because Jim’s returned memories would herald Jim returning home, leaving Éomer. Still he could not refuse Jim, not when he was so excited, so he nodded, relaxed into Jim’s embrace with a contented sigh. “Tell me, Léoht. I would hear your tales.”

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

  


*~*

 _Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?  
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?  
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?  
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?  
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;  
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.  
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,  
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?  
 **The Lord of the Rings**  
Lament of the Rohirrim, in 'The King of the Golden Hall'_

*~*

“Éomer!”

The harsh shout stopped him in his tracks and he turned, tensing, though he knew what had Théodred spitting fire. “Aye, Cousin?” he asked, his face calm, but his eyes hard. He would yield nothing.

Théodred grabbed his arm, did not wait for agreement, just shoved him down the corridor, marching them to his rooms. Éomer did not protest, but he ground his jaws together to keep from lashing out.

The door slammed behind them and Théodred kicked a stool, sending it tumbling over. “Dammit!” he growled.

Éomer stood rigid, back straight, mouth drawn, his hands clenched at his sides, only his eyes moving as he watched his cousin, his shield-brother, pace and swear. He began to think that Théodred had forgotten about him, but he stilled and turned furious eyes to Éomer. “You have taken him riding? Given him a horse? What in Eorl’s name were you thinking?”

Éomer lifted his chin, but said nothing. He owed no one details of his private life, of who warmed his bed, or filled his heart. Not even Théodred.

“Oh, warg’s balls!” Théodred gasped out, dropping heavily into a leather armchair. “You have gone and done it.” He sagged against the chair, all fight wrung from him.

“Sit down, dammit!” Théodred waved at the other chair.

“Is that an order, Highness?”

Théodred shot him a sharp look. “Nay! Get your arse in that chair!” He rubbed his face wearily. “It is me, ‘Mer, not Elfhelm and not blasted Gríma! Sit. Down.”

Éomer sat stiffly, still at full attention.

“Just tell me, ‘Mer. Is he worth it? Does he make you happy?”

Éomer looked at him, felt his heart in his throat at the sincere concern. He unclenched his jaw and nodded, eyes still wary, but they had never lied to each other, never kept things hidden away. “He does,” he averred. _’More than I have ever known.’_

“But…” Théodred sighed, stopping mid-thought. “Does he remember anything?”

“Nothing more than fantastical childhood tales of the stars.”

“Then how can you vouch for him? How do you know that he will not betray us? How can you trust him?”

Éomer’s eyes blazed, but he kept his tone cool. “Do you think me such a poor judge of character?”

“I do not doubt your head, but I fear you are thinking with your cock, _not_ your head!”

Éomer sucked in a harsh breath, his eyes going flat. “You should know better than that, but since you do not, would you take Firefoot’s word? He accepted Léoht faster than anyone I have seen.”

Théodred snorted. “Firefoot follows your lead. How is that proof of anything?”

Éomer kept his passivity, but his cousin’s doubt stung. “Fine. You will not accept my word, nor Firefoot’s. Will you trust Brego then?”

“What? Brego tolerates few. He has even bitten you and ‘Wyn.”

“Your fiery mount, broken by your own hand, wild to others, _nickered_ at Léoht and then demanded to be petted.” Éomer sat back in the chair, his expression smug. “Tell me I am wrong about Léoht. That I am betraying our people and land. Then condemn your own stallion in the same breath.”

A muscle in Théodred’s jaw twitched. “We all have our duty, ‘Mer. Do not ask me to willfully ignore mine.” His eyes did not soften. “It would go hard between us.”

“Are we done, Highness?” Éomer asked, swallowing down his anger, hid how much his cousin’s distrust of him hurt, but he was not going to be chided like a misbehaving child. Not when he knew that Jim was worthy of his trust.

“Nay!” Théodred hissed. “By the Gods! Why do you have to be so blasted stubborn?”

Éomer did not answer, just stared grimly ahead.

Théodred ducked his head and sighed before blowing out a soft breath. “You are going to sit there and stew in your righteous indignation, make me apologize, are you not?”

“What would you have me say?”

The muscles in Théodred’s neck jumped, but he stood and knelt before Éomer, gripping his hand tightly. “I would have you understand, ‘Mer. You, of all people, _know_ me.”

Éomer met his eyes, but kept his mien cold, reserved. “And you know _me_.”

“I do. I know that you are not foolish and would never let your heart interfere with your duty. I trust you, ‘Mer, with my life, but I _had_ to ask. That worm, Gríma, is snooping around and I want to give him no weapon with which to gut us.”

Éomer softened. Théodred had been there for him when no one else was.

“You would do the same, were it me,” Théodred chided gently.

Éomer growled and kicked out, knocking Théodred on his arse. He recovered and grabbed Éomer’s boot. “I have no need to do the same. Your wenches take each other out!” But he smiled, gifted his cousin with rarely seen vulnerability, and offered his hand.

Théodred shook his head and grasped his hand, standing quickly before clasping Éomer on the shoulder in a quick hug. “Leave my ‘ladies’ out of this.” He gave Éomer the sparkling grin that had women swooning in his wake, before sobering. “In truth, what will you do? He is not one of us, ‘Mer, and even if he were, your… relations…”

Éomer shrugged and pulled away, standing quickly. In three sharp steps he was at the window, staring sightlessly as the blazing sunset bathed the plains in fiery light. “I know not, but I cannot, in good conscience, send him on his way while he has no knowledge of himself. He is too vulnerable and even were he not…” he swallowed past the lump in his throat, “important to me, I would not do so.”

Théodred joined Éomer at the window and slung an arm over his shoulder. “He is no maiden that needs protecting. I have seen you two sparring.”

“Éowyn could best him with sword _and_ spear.”

“Not for long. He learns quickly. So why do you risk so much by keeping him here?”

“I…” Éomer knew why, knew how Jim made him feel, how he wanted to hold onto that feeling, stay wrapped up in strong arms, drowning in bright eyes. But Jim was exposed without his memory and they were at war even if the king had not declared it so. The skirmishes grew closer and more costly each week. Éomer could not hang onto Jim forever and he knew this, but he also knew that he could not bear to let him go, did not trust his safety to anyone but himself.

“I merely want to protect him, as I would any other that comes to our door needing aid.”

“Have it your way, but heed my words, ‘Mer. He does not belong here.”

“I know, Cousin. I know.” Éomer gripped the window ledge and refused to contemplate the future.

~~*~~

McCoy rushed into the transporter room, his glare trained on Spock. “You were not seriously trying to go without me?” he growled.

“I was, Doctor. As you have said repeatedly, we do not know where the captain is. It would not be in the ships’ best interest if its CMO were placed in a potentially dangerous situation.”

McCoy crossed his arms over his chest. “And if Jim is injured? And needs medical care? Since when are you qualified to provide emergency aid?”

Spock stiffened and raised an eyebrow at McCoy.

“You’re not going without me, Spock.”

“Very well, Doctor. Please take your place on the pad.”

McCoy smiled, victorious, but he cocked his head, considering. Spock had given in far too easily. Either the Vulcan was extremely worried and would never admit it, or McCoy had somehow played into his hand. McCoy frowned. He hated trying to guess what was going on in Spock’s head.

Curious eyes turned to the small metal cube that Scotty placed on one of the pads. “What is that?”

Scotty looked up at him as he stepped off the pad. “Your way home. Keep it safe, ‘Doc.”

Spock and two security officers, Ramirez and Matthews, took their places.

“Energize, Mister Scott.”

As Scotty’s words sunk in, McCoy cried out, “Now just a goddamned minute! I’m not a mechanical babysitter!” but his words were lost as the transporter activated.

The tingling dissipated quickly and McCoy breathed deeply. The air was fresh, smelt of grass and greenery. It reminded him of the one time he and Jim had visited Iowa, but the vista was all wrong. It was wide and sweeping, snow capped mountains in the middle distance, the sun high overhead. It could be earth, but the air did not smell exactly right and the sun that warmed his upturned face was just a shade wrong.

He crossed his arms. “I’m not staying here, Spock.”

Spock merely raised an eyebrow and looked up from where he was kneeling by the metal cube. He pressed a few buttons and legs shot out from the sides, the thing anchoring itself to the spot, and a small ping registered on Spock’s tricorder. With one last switch activated, McCoy could see a protective shield shimmer around the device.

“Clever. Should be safe from most enemies and give us time to find Jim, right, Spock?”

Spock straightened. “That is the intent, Doctor. Unfortunately, its power source is small. We have twenty-four hours to find the captain.”

“Twenty-four hours? He’s been gone for over a week! There’s no telling where he is!” McCoy protested.

“Doctor. Calm yourself. The captain knows the protocols. He would stay as near the beam down point as possible. It should be an easy process to locate him.”

Spock was adjusting his tricorder and sweeping it in wide arcs. His face was impassive, but even McCoy could tell that he was less than pleased with the results.

“Take a look around you, Spock. We’re in the middle of a large, grassy plain with few trees and no water source that I can make out. He couldn’t have stayed here for a week.”

Spock’s lips thinned into a line, but he did not look at McCoy, instead he glanced around a few times and then straightened, his eyes scanning the horizon. “We will be going toward the mountains, Doctor.”

“A guess, Spock?” McCoy grinned.

Spock then quirked an eyebrow at McCoy. “A theory, Doctor. You are correct in your statement that this location is less than ideal, so the captain would have sought out shelter. The distant mountains will have that, as well as water.”

“Still sounds like a guess to me,” McCoy jabbed back, smug.

Spock ignored him and turned to the two security staff. “Matthews, you will stay here, Ramirez, you are with us.” Then Spock looped his pack over his shoulder and began taking long strides into the distance.

Still adjusting the straps of his medkit, McCoy was caught flat-footed, had to scramble to keep up. He was swearing and cursing as he rushed after Spock and Ramirez.

~~*~~

Spock was the first to hear it, to feel the ground begin to shake and he stopped, his head tilted as he listened. Ramirez continued past him, but ground to a halt one step from a large gash in the plains. They were faced with a deep ravine cutting directly across their path. It was too wide to jump and the sides were steep, possibly scalable. The bottom was dry, but seemed to be a channel for spring floods.

McCoy stopped by Spock’s side. “Do you feel that?”

“I noted it three point five minutes ago, Doctor. There is… a herd, or a large number of hooved beasts rapidly approaching.”

McCoy looked to the side and could just make out a cloud of dust which seemed to be heading straight for them. “I’m not sure I want to meet whatever or whoever that is, Spock.”

Spock gave a curt nod. “I agree, Doctor. I suggest we look for a path… and quickly.”

Further to their left, the land began to rise and Spock turned in that direction, away from the approaching herd. The crevasse narrowed at this point and they could make out bare rocks jutting from the earth as they neared. Spock suddenly shoved McCoy in front of him and Ramirez turned, but too late. He was knocked to the ground by a fell beast. Spock shot the animal, but two more took the first one’s place. Spock switched the phaser from stun and fired in rapid succession, the horrid beasts shot down in mid-leap.

McCoy hurried to Ramirez’ side, swallowing down the bile that threatened at the stench coming from the vile creatures. Instead he focused on his patient, but it was too late. The first beast had snapped Ramirez’ neck with its powerful jaws. Swearing loudly as the adrenaline spike faded, McCoy looked up at Spock, suddenly aware of the spears pointed at them.

Swallowing, McCoy said, “He’s dead, Spock,” but he did not move a muscle.

“Drop your weapons and raise your hands.”

McCoy looked up, but was briefly blinded by the sun. He could only make out a silhouette, a powerful rider astride a large horse, a bright helm, a phalanx of riders and spears surrounding them. McCoy raised his hands. “I’m a doctor, not a fighter. I don’t have a weapon.” It wasn’t completely true, but by the looks of the weapons trained on them, he doubted they would know a phaser from a pistol.

The voice chuckled, the accent thick, but the words all too clear. “And was it your healing magic that took out three wargs?”

“The first beast is not dead, merely stunned.” Spock declared. The spears pressed closer and McCoy glanced up, cursing under his breath. He watched the Vulcan carefully lock the phaser before tossing it on the ground and raising his hands in the air.

One of the riders dismounted and stabbed a spear through the stunned beast’s head. “It is dead now, Highness.”

The first speaker, the one addressed as royalty, dismounted and removed his helm. The man was tall and handsome, golden hair streaming past his shoulders, his eyes a warm brown. He could have been no more than twenty-five, altogether too young, but he carried an air of authority, was obviously bred to it. He gazed at McCoy, his brows knitted together, before he shook his head as though convincing himself that he was mistaken. McCoy stood slowly, his hands raised as he met the quizzical gaze.

“You are not Eorlingas, nor men of Gondor, and too clean to be Dunlending. Where do you hail from?” His voice was deeply suspicious and McCoy looked at Spock, who still had his hands raised.

“We are from beyond Gondor. I am Spock and this is our healer, McCoy. We did not mean to trespass. We are looking for a missing comrade. Our captain.” Spock pointed back along their path. “Perhaps you have heard of another stranger among you?”

“Beyond Gondor?” The captain took two strides toward Spock and looked at him closely through narrowed eyes. “Are you an elf?”

McCoy blurted out before Spock could answer truthfully, “A half-elf, actually.”

The leader turned, his brows again knitted in confusion as he studied McCoy intently. “And you? You are from…?”

“Georgia,” McCoy added hastily to Spock’s raised eyebrow. “We both are. Have you heard of another of our kind here?”

The captain was suspicious, unconvinced of their story, and he shook his head. “No strangers have crossed into the Mark in the past days.” He kept his stern expression but offered them a terse welcome. “Well met, men of Georgia.”

The captain tipped his head. “I am Théodred, Second Marshall of the Riddermark.”

“Sire? A word?” An older rider met his leader’s eye before turning and walking some distance from McCoy and Spock, the leader following in long strides. They conversed quietly, were turned away so that their words were impossible to discern even as they kept tossing glances McCoy’s way.

McCoy and Spock shared a worried look before the leader returned.

“While I am unaware of any strangers crossing into the Mark recently, one of the other patrols may have seen your captain. You will ride with us for Edoras.”

While they were conversing, the riders had dragged the three beasts into a pile and were covering them with grasses, branches, scrub brush, and a small downed tree, anything that would light. McCoy watched, but kept silent, until they reached for Ramirez.

He dropped his hands and stepped between them. “Now wait just a goddamned minute! You’re not cremating Ramirez with those… things!”

Théodred waved the spears down; there was no escape from the fearsome riders. “I am sorry for your shield-brother, but we cannot carry him back and to leave him here is to invite dark things. We will offer our rites for him and allow you to say a few words, there is no time for more.”

McCoy wanted to protest, to argue. It was not right to leave Ramirez this way, but they had no choice. Besides, they had to find Jim before they ran out of time. He swallowed down his argument and stepped aside, nodding sadly. The warriors carried Ramirez carefully and placed him atop the largest branches, wholly separate from the beasts.

McCoy looked to Spock, to see if he would offer up a blessing, or words, something that was appropriate. Spock looked stiff and uncomfortable, at a loss for words. Jim was good at these things, somehow pulling out the right quotes to imbue whatever situation with the perfect solemnity. McCoy sighed. He would have to do it then.

He stepped beside the body as they lit the pyre, which caught quickly. He recited in somber tones and reverent words a fitting poem Jim had quoted before.

  


>   
> 
> 
> _Under the wide and starry sky,  
>  Dig the grave and let me lie.  
> Glad did I live and gladly die,  
> And I laid me down with a will._
> 
>  _This be the verse you gave for me:  
>  Here he lies where he longed to be;  
> Home is the sailor, home from the sea,  
> And the hunter home from the hill._***

The Riders each tossed a stalk of long grass and a handful of dirt onto the pyre, offering their respects. McCoy was touched and grateful.

“Now we must ride, Men of Georgia.”

McCoy nodded, unable to speak around the lump in his throat.

All of their equipment was confiscated and placed into saddle bags before each man was helped to mount. McCoy found himself behind Théodred and he had to wrap his arms about the muscled torso to steady himself.

The leader turned and gave him a quizzical glance. “You _can_ ride?”

“Quite well, thank you! But not clinging like a leech!” McCoy snapped.

“Brego will not let you fall,” was the assured reply.

McCoy huffed and chanced a glance Spock. “Spock, you alright over there?” he called out.

“I fare well, Doctor.” McCoy wondered at that, but did not argue as they set out. He glanced back to see the blazing pyre consume Ramirez, two remaining guards silhouetted against the inferno.

~~*~~

McCoy watched intently as the golden keep grew nearer. He had been peppering Théodred with a barrage of questions, most of which received no more reply than a muttered grunt, but he kept trying. Something did not add up and he needed to know what.

Soon they were clattering through cobblestone streets and striding up large stone steps. As they walked, McCoy noted crowds gathering out of the corner of his eyes and he was grateful for the large cloaks they had been given once they dismounted. “We must be some entertainment,” he observed.

Théodred looked about, unconcerned. “Your faces mark you as strangers. And that is entertainment enough.”

The guards beside the door were standing stiffly at attention, but Théodred pushed the doors open, ignoring them. He spat once the doors closed behind them. “Gríma. Where is the king? I have business with him.”

“The king is resting. Whatever business you have with him, you can discuss with _me_.”

McCoy felt Théodred tense, could see the way his jaw clenched. “Very well. I simply wished to inform the king that I have brought two visitors from…” he hesitated, “Gondor. They will be staying with us for a few days.” He ducked his head and hastily began to turn away.

Gríma sat up straighter, his eyes dark over a wicked smirk. “Hold, Théodred.”

Théodred stopped, storm clouds gathering in his eyes, but he composed himself and turned back, his face impassive. “Aye?”

“I did not dismiss you.”

Théodred stilled, his jaw clenching, hands curled into fists at his side, but he refused to say another word, his eyes locked with the slight man beside the throne.

The battle of wills was brief and McCoy heaved a sigh of relief when Gríma relented, waving his hands. “You can go, but I am watching you.”

McCoy felt Théodred’s anger. He might not understand all that was going on, but he knew that he didn’t like this _’Gríma’_ fellow one bit.

Théodred marched from the hall, his boots ringing through the stone corridor. He did not stop until they had put two flights of stairs and four doors between them. He stalked into a comfortable room, dropping onto one of the large, sturdy benches and leaning against the wall. Théodred slammed his boots up on the bench, huffing out a great, frustrated sigh.

McCoy and Spock stood in the center of the room, glancing at each other. There were two large tables, benches for sitting, a small, high window allowed in rapidly paling light, gilding the rugs and tapestries with pink and purple hues. The two guards that had accompanied them flanked Théodred, lounging comfortably.

A pretty young maid stepped into the room, her eyes wide and afraid as she looked at Spock.

“It’s okay, darlin’, he don’t bite,” McCoy gave her a toothy grin and Théodred laughed out loud.

“Bring ale and food… and be quick about it!”

“Aye, Sire!” the maid replied, hastily fleeing the room.

Théodred closed his eyes, but waved at McCoy and Spock. “Take a seat. I have sent for Éomer and Léoht. We should have your mystery solved soonest.”

McCoy shrugged at Spock but tossed off the cloak and sat on the bench opposite Théodred. “Who are Éomer and Léoht?”

Théodred opened his eyes and gave McCoy another hard, measuring gaze. “No matter who they are, your meeting should prove… interesting.”

The maid returned with mugs of beer and a large tray laden with food; meats, cheeses, crusty bread and pots of butter and spreads. She sat it all down in front of Théodred and then made herself scarce after dropping a quick curtsy.

“Dig in,” Théodred urged as he picked up his own mug and drank heartily.

McCoy took a mug and lifted it to his lips hesitantly. He sniffed at the concoction before taking a wary sip. Whatever else the Rohirrim were, they definitely knew how to make beer. McCoy took another, larger sip, nodding appreciatively as he let the flavors burst upon his tongue.

“That’s some mighty fine beer. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Healer. Drink up. I think you will be glad that you did.”

~~*~~

Éowyn burst into the room and froze when McCoy turned. She blinked, her mouth working but no sound came forth.

Théodred slammed his empty mug down onto the table and laughed. “Never in all my days has my cousin been rendered speechless. That alone is worth the trouble.”

Théodred beckoned Éowyn forward. “Come, ‘Wyn, they will not bite.”

The guard, Garulf, McCoy thought his name was, stood and offered Éowyn his place. She sat, slowly and properly, her eyes flitting between McCoy and Spock, but still no words made it past her lips even as her throat fluttered nervously.

McCoy offered a soft smile. “We really don’t bite, ma’am. In fact we can be quite pleasant, especially to such a beautiful lady as yourself.”

Éowyn reached for a mug and took a long swallow, her eyes never leaving McCoy’s face. She took a deep breath as she set the drink back down. “You… you…” The words still failed her and she looked at Théodred beseechingly.

Théodred shrugged. “I have no idea, but from the approaching sounds, I think we will find out shortly.”

Éomer burst into the room, growling and swearing. He was sweating and dirty and not happy to have been pulled from whatever activity he had been engaged in. “What in Eorl’s name?!” he demanded of his cousin, completely oblivious to the two strangers, until, that is, McCoy turned around.

McCoy practically tripped over himself as he simultaneously cried out and stood, rushing to the other man’s side, “Jim!”

Jim took a step back and Éomer moved between him and McCoy, his eyes hard and dangerous. “Who are you?” he growled at McCoy in a curiously familiar tone.

McCoy froze, heart thundering with relief and profound confusion. His eyes couldn’t settle, couldn’t decide between staring into his own face and reassuring himself that Jim was well.

Spock stood, his calm warmth soothing at McCoy’s back as he looked at Jim. “Captain, it is good to see you in one piece.”

Éomer’s eyes were drawn to Spock’s ears, then back to McCoy’s face before he looked over McCoy’s shoulder at Théodred. “You son of a warg! What game are you playing?”

Théodred stood, stepped between the four men and pushed them to opposite benches. “Sit down. All of you.” He was used to being obeyed and did not brook any argument.

McCoy sat, his brow furrowed as he took in Jim’s state. He was as dirty and disheveled as Éomer, but he looked well, his eyes bright, no hollows in his cheeks beneath the full beard. Jim was wearing the clothes of the Rohirrim, his hair longer than McCoy had ever seen it, and he was sitting painfully close to McCoy’s doppelganger, their hands on each other’s thigh. McCoy swallowed and blinked at the casual intimacy.

Théodred looked between the four men and shook his head. “Cousin, you have a twin.” He cocked his head at McCoy. “From Georgia.”

“That’s right, Georgia. I’m Doctor Leonard McCoy, but you call me ‘Bones’, and the half-elf here, that’s Spock. You remember, doncha’, Jim?”

Éomer was staring at McCoy, his eyes widening further when he heard McCoy describe himself as ‘Bones’ but he held his tongue.

None of them seemed to know what to say, so Théodred stepped in front of Jim and looked down at him. “Léoht, do you know these men? They wear clothes similar to the ones you wore when we found you. And they seem to know you.”

McCoy met Jim’s assessing gaze, silently holding his breath.

Jim cocked his head, his eyes intent as he carefully and slowly took in first Spock’s, then McCoy’s face and form. His brow furrowed and his lips pursed, but he shook his head slowly, a soft exhale giving away his frustration as he finally turned to Théodred. “I do not know them, but… I do believe them when they say they know me.”

McCoy’s heart sank, but before he could speak up, Spock did. “Captain… _Jim_ … if I may?” He stood and lifted his hand to Jim’s face.

Éomer stood and blocked Spock. “What is this? Elf magic?”

“It is not magic. I am simply offering the chance to restore the captain’s memory.” He dropped his hand to his side, did not challenge Éomer’s hot gaze.

Jim stood and put a restraining hand on Éomer, pulled him back down beside him, keeping their hands linked.

McCoy recognized Éomer’s fierce protectiveness, felt it himself for Jim, but he knew he’d never exchanged such tender glances with him. He had never admitted his own feelings, not to Jim, not even to himself. That realization hit him like a sucker punch and knocked the wind out of him. He dropped back onto his elbows, lost in his own misery, unaware of the quiet murmur of voices while the world spun out from under him.

“Doctor? Are you unwell?” Spock’s voice roused McCoy and he looked up at Spock, looked around the room, and met Jim’s blue eyes staring at him, his eyebrows arched with that little furrow between them.

“I-I I’ve just got a headache, Spock.” He rubbed a hand over his face.

Spock looked at McCoy, “Perhaps you should rest? It has been a trying week.”

McCoy just wanted to take Jim and beam home, dammit! But it seemed like that wasn’t happening, at least not right now.

Éowyn spoke up, “I will show you to a room where you can rest and refresh yourselves before the evening meal.”

“Thank you, m’lady,” Spock dipped his head, causing Éowyn to beam at him.

Éomer and Jim stood. He looked at McCoy and offered them one of his patented, and patently false, ‘Jim Kirk’ smiles. “Let me think about your offer, Spock. And, for what it’s worth, it was… interesting to meet you.”

And then they were gone, their heavy footfalls fading down the corridor.

Éowyn gave McCoy a gentle, understanding smile. “You have come a long way. The world will appear brighter once you have rested.”

McCoy stood and slowly nodded. “I hope you’re right, ma’am. I hope you’re right.”

Éowyn glanced back at Théodred, who shrugged and waved her away, but McCoy noticed that two guards kept close on their heels. In some ways, that made him feel better. They were not yet trusted, but Jim was. The Rohirrim seemed like good, if wary, people.

Once Éowyn had shown them to a small, austere room, she shooed the guards out and hesitated before the closed door. Turning back she straightened her shoulders and pinned McCoy with a bright stare. “You do look remarkably like my brother. So alike, you could be from the same womb. Does the same heart beat in your chest as well?” She touched her hand to McCoy’s chest and looked at him.

McCoy knew she was telling him something, or asking, but he was too overwhelmed to think clearly. He licked his lips and gave his silent agreement.

Éowyn smiled softly at him, her eyes sad. “I hope so, for my brother’s sake. This is going to be difficult for him.” She turned and left.

McCoy released the breath he’d been holding and dropped to the bed, flopping to his back.

“Doctor, you should rest.”

“I can’t sleep, Spock. What if Jim refuses the meld?”

“He will not.”

McCoy rolled to his elbow and looked over at Spock who was gazing impassively out the small window. “And just how in blue blazes do you know that? Didn’t you see him? He seemed… different… unburdened. Happy.”

“If he refuses, I will talk to him, but he will not refuse.”

“Now wait just a goddamned minute! You’re not going to force him!”

“Calm yourself, Doctor.” Spock turned to look at McCoy, his face as impassive as ever. “I will not need to. This is the captain. He may not remember his life, but he is the same person, with the same thirst for knowledge, the same instincts, the same intuition and curiosity. You can be assured… he will want to know.”

McCoy dropped back to the bed and stared up at the soot-darkened ceiling. “And is that the right thing to do, Spock?” he asked, his voice small as the nagging doubt that had plagued him since he saw Jim’s smile bloomed in his chest.

Spock turned and cocked his head at McCoy, one eyebrow raised. “I do not understand, Doctor.”

“Spock, Jim’s never been… _I’ve_ never seen him so… happy.” McCoy hesitated, his gut burning, but he forced himself to finish it. “Maybe he’s better off not remembering?”

Spock blinked and took two steps toward McCoy. Straightening, he looked down at McCoy who had shifted to his elbows. “Doctor, I am puzzled by your meaning. You wish to leave the captain here?”

McCoy sighed and shook his head. “No. I just… Spock, I’ve never seen Jim smile like that. He’s obviously happy here and seems well cared for.”

Spock was silent for many counts and McCoy began to fidget under his gaze. Finally, he spoke. “Doctor, what you propose is not logical and the captain’s current emotional state has no bearing on the situation.” Spock paused again, as though he were searching for the right words.

“But, Spock—”

“Let me finish, Doctor. I cannot in good conscience leave Jim here without his memory. If he were to regain that memory at a future date, what do you think his reaction would be?”

McCoy slumped. “He would believe we abandoned him.”

“And I would be derelict in my friendship as well as my duty, Doctor.”

“Okay, Spock. I get it!” McCoy growled, his stomach in knots as he met the Vulcan’s too perceptive gaze.

“Doctor—”

“Stop, Spock. Look, I don’t even know what I’m saying or why…”

“Doctor,” Spock continued, his tone surprisingly gentle. “Your emotional state has been precarious since the captain disappeared. I might not understand the sentiment, but I realize your feelings for the captain run deep and his loss has taken a toll on you. Sleep, Doctor,” Spock urged. “I will ensure you are undisturbed.”

McCoy blinked, too stunned for words. His mind racing, he merely nodded and curled up around one of the down pillows. Why was he even arguing that Jim should stay? What the hell was wrong with him?

~~*~~

Éomer’s heart was in his throat and all he could think of was getting Jim out of that room. The two strangers had been sure they knew Jim, and the one that wore Éomer’s face had said that Jim called him Bones. On more than a few nights, Jim had called out that name in his sleep. Éomer saw those men and knew that his time with Jim was growing short. He pressed his hand to Jim’s back as they walked down the corridor, unconcerned who might see the small gesture. Jim shifted as they walked, leaning into the touch, making Éomer smile. Some of his unease and worry dissipated as his hand lingered, soaking up Jim’s warmth.

They stepped into Jim’s room and Jim slumped against the closed door. Surprised, Éomer turned and his fears returned in full force. “You will allow this Spock to work his magic on you.” He tried to keep his voice calm, but it radiated his deep hurt.

Jim shook his head, protesting as he pushed away from the door. He wrapped his arms around Éomer’s waist and rested his head on Éomer’s shoulder, allowing his lips to lightly skim the tender skin of his neck. Éomer was helpless to resist and tightened his arms around the slighter man, a soft, frustrated growl rumbling through his chest.

“Léoht?”

Jim sighed and pulled away, finally meeting Éomer’s gaze. “I have not yet decided.”

Jim sounded so lost and broken in that moment that Éomer would have done anything, given up anything, to fix it, to make him smile once again.

He swallowed, replied with words that made his heart ache. “Know that whatever you decide, I understand and support your decision. I…” He hesitated. “I only want your happiness.”

He wanted to say _’I love you’_ but the words were caught in his throat, tangled up with _’you are so beautiful’_ and _’do not leave me’_ so he remained silent, conveyed his feelings as he had from the first. He pulled Jim close, kissed him tenderly and tried not to think about losing this, about no longer holding Jim in his arms, about sleeping alone once again, about a life without Jim. He deepened the kiss, pressed harder, tasting, needing to map all of Jim with his tongue, his hands, his whole body as Éomer was suddenly all too certain that Jim was already lost to him.

Jim tucked himself under Éomer’s chin, murmured something that he couldn’t understand but it warmed Éomer, the bands constricting his heart eased a fraction.

“Can I have some time alone? To think?” Jim asked quietly, his face still buried in Éomer’s shoulder.

Éomer wanted to refuse, did not want to let Jim out of his sight. But he knew he had no right to cling so tightly. He licked his lips and stepped back, his arms slipping from Jim’s body. “But of course. I should probably wash.”

He turned to leave, but Jim stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Éomer?”

Éomer turned back, his eyes questioning as he met Jim’s gaze. There was something in those eyes, something that burned through Éomer, set his very soul afire, forced him to clench his hands tightly at his side, his nails cutting into his palms as he stood still, waiting.

“I love you.”

All the breath rushed from his lungs. He had not been brave enough to voice it, still was not, but nothing cowed Jim. It was yet another reason that Éomer found him irresistible. He crushed Jim to his chest, kissing him deeply, not stopping to breathe, uncaring of such things as he devoured Jim and answered his declaration with his own heartfelt, if wordless, answer.

When Éomer finally left a boneless and languid Jim splayed artlessly out on his bed, Éomer was certain of little except that he was completely and totally besotted with the blue-eyed man. As the door latched shut behind him, Éomer leaned against it and took a great, heaving breath and closed his eyes trying to steel himself against the coming storm. Jim might love him now, but would he still, once he regained his memories?

*** Poem is _**Requiem** by Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)_

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

*~*

 _"Too often have I heard of duty," she cried. "But am I not of the House of Eorl, a shield maiden and not a dry-nurse? I have waited on faltering feet long enough. Since they falter no longer, it seems, may I not now spend my life as I will."  
 **The Lord of the Rings**  
Lady Éowyn to Aragorn, in 'The Passing of the Grey Company'_

*~*

Jim swallowed before rapping lightly on the door. Spock opened it, then stepped back and allowed him into the room. McCoy was lying on the bed, asleep. And Jim was relieved. He watched the gentle rise and fall of McCoy’s chest, his gaze caught on the familiar face, _Éomer’s face,_ but not. He couldn’t explain why, didn’t understand the compulsion, but he wanted to reach out and touch the smooth shaven cheek, feel the bare skin beneath his palm, run his fingers through the short, dark hair. His stomach fluttered and twisted as he stared at the sleeping man and he had to wrench his gaze away.

Jim caught Spock looking at him and nodded to the corridor. Spock followed him out on silent footsteps.

Once they were in the hallway and the door closed behind them, he blurted out, “I want my memory back.”

Spock nodded and reached for the door handle.

Jim pressed a hand to his shoulder, stopping him. “Not in there. My room?”

Spock raised an eyebrow, but merely nodded and followed behind Jim, one of the guards trailing after them. Jim quickly navigated the corridors and returned to his room.

And now that he was here, alone with Spock, the reality sunk in. The butterflies in his stomach turned to lead, formed a hard knot and he took a few large breaths trying to calm himself. He should be happy. He was going to remember who he was and his life before coming to the Mark. So why did he feel so unsure, so certain that his life before and his life now were completely incompatible and he would be forced to choose?

“Captain?” Spock pulled his attention from his quickly escalating panic.

“What kind of ship was I captain of, Spock?”

Spock did not answer for a long time. “The _Enterprise,_ Captain, a fine ship, the flagship of the ‘Fleet.”

“What was my crew like?”

“You are fond of saying that you have the best crew in the ‘whole damned universe.’ That only the ‘cream of the crop’ serve on board your ship. And they are all quite loyal to you.”

Jim blinked. He truly believed Spock, but he had to know more. “Was I a good captain?”

Spock stood straighter. “Indeed. One of the finest. It is an honor to serve under you.”

Spock’s words resonated with Jim, as though he’d said them before, but not until Jim had earned them.

“Do I… do I have a family?”

“You often claim the crew is your family, but your mother and both grandmothers are still alive.”

“No. I meant… a wife? Children?”

“No, Captain. You have never married and have no offspring.”

“Do I have friends? People that I care about?”

“You do. You have the ability to draw people to you and are often surrounded by them, most would consider you a friend, even though few know you well.”

“Are there any that know the real me?” Jim measured Spock, wondering at the dispassionate man before him. Jim didn’t quite understand Spock, but he trusted him and his opinion held great importance to Jim.

“I consider myself your ‘friend’, Captain, but none know you as well as Doctor McCoy.”

Jim should have known. He felt it; knew there was a reason he trusted Spock and McCoy. He needed to remember _why._ Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders, and looked Spock straight in the eye. He wasn’t sure what he expected to hear, or what he was searching for, he only knew that he needed to have some understanding that he was a good man in his other life. “Then, I’m ready.”

Spock lifted his hand to Jim’s face and gently pressed his fingers to Jim’s skin. He was murmuring some words, something soft that sounded almost like an incantation and then Jim’s eyes slammed shut as he felt the warm press of another in his head. He tensed, would have screamed, but the presence murmured soothingly, calming, even as it pressed harder, more insistent.

Jim felt oddly disconnected from his body as though he were floating in the sea, bobbing on the warm waves, the sun making him drowsy, even as his breathing sped up and his heart began to thunder in his ears. The presence, _‘Spock’_ he thought, said more words, sent him reassuring images, projected calm, a haven from the storm, and Jim gave in. He relaxed and let go, just let the warmth envelop him as the pushing and prodding and poking around in his thoughts waxed and waned. He floated like that, relaxed and enjoying the sensations until there was a loud explosion and he heard a pained scream, didn’t realize it came from him, and then the world went white.

Searing pain ruptured behind his eyelids, tearing his head apart. He groaned, a weak whimper issuing from his lips as he curled in on himself. Warm hands pressed onto his face and the pain slowly diminished, fading like smoke on the plains. He sighed with relief, and tentatively opened his eyes. He was staring into Spock’s face, his brown eyes unfathomable, but so very familiar.

Jim’s lips twitched upward. “Spock?” he croaked through dry lips.

“Captain.” There was no smile, but Spock was relieved; Jim could see it as his face softened slightly. “It is good to see you.”

Jim struggled to sit up and rested his back against the side of his bed, elbows resting on his bent knees as he hung his head. He couldn’t quite grasp everything that had happened, his memories were disjointed and chaotic, but they were gradually coalescing, forming into distinct events once again. His head was throbbing; it felt like someone had been poking around in his brain with heated knives.

“Here, Captain. Drink this. I doubt it will help with the headache, but it will ease your dry throat.”

Jim took the cup and drank. It was nothing but cool, clear water, and he drank greedily, finishing the entire cup. As he drank he thought of how different unfiltered, unreplicated, _natural_ water tasted. How the water tasted of minerals, of algae, of the very heart of the plains, of sunshine and grass – all of that in a single cup of water.

Jim’s thoughts circled and he chased them, trying to capture his memories. It was fruitless – they were coming, but not fast enough for him. He looked up at Spock who still knelt beside him. “What happened, Spock? I still don’t remember everything.” Jim closed his eyes again, blocking out the too bright light.

“I calculate that it will take some time, no more than eight hours, for your mind to heal and for your thoughts to resume their ordered pathways. Your amnesia was not primarily from the head trauma, Captain.”

“What?” he asked, his brow furrowed, which made his head hurt more. He ducked his head back down, willing the spikes and sparking in his brain to ease.

“Your subconscious had erected a wall, a substantial block, and was actively keeping your memories from your conscious mind.” Spock hesitated, and that, more than his words, forced Jim to look up even though it caused him intense physical pain to do so. “It is… I theorize that you did not _wish_ to remember.”

“What? That’s bullshit! I needed to know!” he argued, the pain in his head flaring, and he gasped softly in response.

“You are only human, Captain. You do not have the control to affect your subconscious mind. It was not a conscious decision on your part.”

Jim slumped. “Shit.” His head throbbed and he just wanted to sleep for a week. “Hey, does Bones have his medkit? I could really use something for this headache… and the nausea…” his voice trailed off as that feeling of impending disaster overtook him. He barely made it to his knees and bent over the bed pan before retching up the meager contents of his stomach.

Spock bent down beside him. “I will see if I can convince our hosts that you need medical attention and that Doctor McCoy poses no threat.” He handed Jim a glass of water and stood. He hesitated and Jim hazarded a look up, which led to more vomiting. He waved his hand weakly at Spock. “Go. Need Bones,” he wheezed out.

Spock left quickly and Jim hung his head, trying to find a position that abated the headache without increasing the nausea. There was no position he could stay in, so he crawled onto the bed and gingerly curled on his side. The pain did not diminish and he just prayed that Bones would have something to help, and soon.

~~*~~

Jim was dimly aware of voices, one in particular cut through the gray haze of pain clouding his mind. _’Bones,’_ he thought, turning instinctively toward the gruff voice. The accent, the harsh tones had always meant comfort, safety, relief from ache and the searing knives that were currently cutting a wide swathe through his brain.

“I got you, kid.” Jim felt a cool hand touch his face, whimpered as his head was tilted and the movement sent the blades lacerating his brain into overdrive. “Goddammit! Couldn’t you have waited? What the hell were you thinking? Going into a deep meld without lypocalciterol on hand or at least a medic in attendance!”

Jim winced and wanted to smile at Bones, show him how reassuringly familiar this all was, but he couldn’t… not yet. And with the pain splitting his head in two, Jim wasn’t sure he’d ever have the chance.

“Hand me my kit, Spock.” Bones demanded.

Jim tensed as the cool hand left his face. He moaned at the loss of contact, once again he found himself adrift on a sea of pain, nothing tethering him to the current reality allowing better forgotten memories to resurface. Long buried events buffeted him; nightmares that he’d put behind him, that he’d believed he’d moved beyond and relegated to those few hours in the deepest, darkest night.

“What in Eorl’s name is going on here?”

That voice pulled Jim from the ocean of hurt and he pried his gritty eyelids open. Instead of meeting a worried hazel gaze, he was met with skull shredding whiteness, forcing a harsh cry from his dry lips.

A shouted, “Get outta the way! I’m a doctor, dammit!” pushed Jim further into the miasma of pain and he curled in on himself, whimpering softly as he tried to hide from the debilitating pain.

“Some healer! You are doing him harm!”

“Doctor, please attend to the Captain.”

“Let me go! What have you done to him?”

The gentle touch returned, grounding him. Jim was pliant, moved where put and barely registered the familiar bite of the hypo. He drifted, the fog slowly clearing as the sounds of a struggle and cursing reached his ears. He didn’t open his eyes, afraid of the skull rending pain, but he needed to know what was happening. Had to know if Éomer was safe, if Bones was still there.

When Jim’s eyes fluttered open, Bones was leaning over him, his typical scowl firmly in place. It was a comforting, welcome sight. Jim tried to smile, but only managed a slight crook of his lips around a croaked out, “Bones.” The scowl softened, Bones’ eyes lightening as he muttered a hushed, “Idiot,” in answer.

Jim’s eyes flitted past Bones’ shoulder. There, for the briefest of moments he met a warm, worried gaze. So quickly that he thought he imagined it, the warmth vanished and Éomer wrenched himself out of Spock’s grip. He turned and stormed away, the slamming of the door echoing in the suddenly silent room.

Jim sighed, struggled to push himself up, but Bones held him down, a large, familiar hand pressing against his sternum kept him in place.

“Jim. What the hell? You’re not going anywhere.”

“Bones.”

A cup of cool water was pressed to his lips as his head was raised. He drank greedily, his throat easing with each refreshing swallow.

“Théo!” Éowyn cried out and Jim’s eyes flew upward, only to be met with the surprising vision of Éowyn struggling in Théodred’s grasp.

“Leave it, ‘Wyn. Let him be. He must deal with this in his own way.”

Jim swallowed, guilt eating at him as he met Éowyn’s clear, gray eyes.

She sagged, nodded, her eyes closing to fight the wetness that was welling in them.

Théodred released her and looked at Spock and McCoy, his face unreadable. “You are welcome to stay for as long as Léoht…” he caught himself quickly, then continued, “for as long as _Jim_ needs.”

“Thank you, Highness. We are in debt to you for your hospitality and for keeping our captain safe. We will not trouble you for much longer. We are needed on our ship,” Spock replied with a brief nod.

“Be that as it may, you are still welcome. There might be little I can do here in Meduseld, but I can offer you the best of what we have.” He canted his head briefly before wrapping his arm around Éowyn’s waist and ushering her to the door.

Jim collapsed back into the pillows, the relief from blinding pain highlighted the tumult of his resurgent memories. It had been easier when he knew nothing of his past, nothing of his present, and was freer than he’d ever been. No expectations sat on his shoulders. It had been sweet relief and had made it easy to _feel_ without burden or consequence and he had. _He had._ Far more than he had ever believed possible.

And now what was he to do? He muttered fitfully, “Bones?”

“I’m here, kid. You’ll be fine. Just quit fighting the sedative and sleep.”

“But, Bones,” he protested weakly.

Spock interrupted with “Captain, you have been through much. The doctor is quite correct that you need to recuperate.”

A warm hand rested on his forehead, he felt that soothing presence brush his mind once again and could no longer fight sleep.

He dozed, dreamt of racing across the plains, flying low enough to skim the tops of the grasses. Laughter burbled up out of him and he turned, noted his companion’s answering laugh before they dove from the cliff over the waterfall.

The shock of the cold water closing over his head woke Jim. He bolted upright, panting as he got his bearings.

Bones was dozing in a chair near Jim, the sight familiar and soothing, but Jim still felt guilty as he stared at his friend. He sighed and tossed off the covers. There was another he needed to see.

“Jim?” Bones was up before Jim’s feet hit the floor

“I’m fine.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Jim recognized Bones’ growl, knew the best way to get through this was to nod and smile and just let Bones reassure himself.

“How’s the head?”

“Fine, Bones. The pain’s gone. I told you…”

“Yeah and I know better than to trust that you’ll actually tell me everything.” Bones was still scanning him, muttering over the readings. “What’s my middle name, kid?”

“Horatio.”

“What year were you born?”

“2233.”

“Who’s your Chief Engineer?”

“Montgomery Scott,” Jim huffed. “Bones!”

“’M not done, kid. How did you get here?”

“Transporter malfunctioned… at least that’s what I assumed happened. Scotty was beaming me up, but I arrived here instead of on the _Enterprise_. Shortly after I arrived, I was attacked by a huge wolf-like beast. In the scuffle, I fell and hit my head on some rocks. That was the last thing I remember before I woke up here and couldn’t remember a damn thing.” Jim glared at Bones and huffed, “We done?” Bones took a step back, something flashed in his eyes but was so quickly smothered that Jim wasn’t sure he had seen it.

Jim shook himself, swore that he was projecting his feelings for Éomer onto Bones. It was all too damned confusing with them having the same face.

Bones cleared his throat and Jim looked up. “Yeah, we’re done. Just don’t go getting hit on the head anytime soon and all your memories should return completely.”

“Thanks, Bones.”

“You should thank Spock, not me, kid.” Bones gave Jim another unfathomable look and Jim had to turn away, his stomach feeling hollow. He stood and then noticed that he was only wearing his ‘small clothes’ as Éomer would say. He flushed brightly as he remembered the last time Éomer had caught him fresh from the bath, clad like this. He tried to will his growing arousal down, but he couldn’t stop the memories of being slowly stripped and bent over the tub, taken so hard he saw stars. Jim bit his lip to keep from moaning aloud.

“Jim, we need to get back,” Bones reminded him, his tone oddly gentle.

Jim swallowed, dug his fingernails into his palms as he stepped to the chest. He couldn’t turn around, not until he pulled on his pants; he felt strangely vulnerable and far more awkward than he’d ever felt around Bones before.

“Spock told me about the transmitter, but he has no idea how it will be impacted by the variant time flow here. He wants to check it out today.” Jim deflected, as he dressed and tried desperately to ignore the flames licking at the base of his spine when he caught Bones’ staring at him from the corner of his eye.

“We should just leave. There’s no reason to stay.”

“Bones.” Jim rounded on his friend. “I’m not sneaking out like I’ve done something wrong. These people were good to me.”

Bones’ eyes were dark and Jim wanted to reach out, smooth the deep furrows from his brow, but he busied his hands with lacing his leggings, then sat and pulled on his boots.

“Didn’t ask you to run out on anybody, kid.”

“Sorry, Bones. I know you just want to get home. Give me some time, okay?”

Bones gave him a curt nod and turned away to look out the window. “I asked the lady, Éowyn, about your warrior. He left on his horse last night… hasn’t returned.”

Jim swore under his breath, worry and guilt flaring hotly. “Damn stubborn bastard!”

He straightened and took two steps toward the door before Bones stopped him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m going to find him… to apologize…”

“Jim—”

“Bones, don’t. Just don’t.” Jim took a deep breath and reached for the door handle as Bones’ hand slipped from his shoulder. He didn’t look back as he strode out of the room.

~~*~~

Jim hurried to the stables, intent on saddling up Hasufel and going after Éomer, even if he had no idea which direction he’d ridden out. He’d deal with that when the time came, but he knew he had to find Éomer, had to explain, needed to at least try.

His stomach churning, he pushed through the wide, wooden door. His eyes adjusted quickly from the early morning light and he smiled as Brego nickered at him. He felt in his pockets and found a bit of carrot for the stallion who was tossing his head, almost as though he was trying to tell Jim something.

Jim shook his head as he patted Brego, rubbing his hands from the forelock down the neck where he scratched his fingers gently through the long mane. “You need to be groomed, big guy,” he murmured before pulling away.

When he turned to walk to Hasufel’s stall he stopped suddenly as Éomer stepped out of Firefoot’s stall carrying the stallion’s saddle. Their eyes met for an instant and Jim sighed with relief until Éomer’s eyes narrowed and he turned his back to Jim and walked away.

Jim held up his hand, cried out, “’Mer!” but Éomer did not stop. Jim snagged a curry comb and stepped into Firefoot’s stall. No matter what happened, the Rider would never turn away from his horse’s needs, especially not with the state Firefoot was in. The stallion was nearly in a lather, had been ridden too long and too hard and was overly agitated. His nerves were from more than a hard ride, or his Rider’s foul mood.

Jim found a larger chunk of carrot that he’d intended for Hasufel, but Firefoot needed it more. He offered the treat to the horse with quiet words and kept up a steady cadence of sing-song words in whatever language he could muster up while soothing Firefoot with the curry brush and long, gentle strokes.

“You do not need to do that. I can take care of my own.”

Jim startled at Éomer’s words and tried to meet his eyes, but Éomer kept the stallion between them, purposefully avoiding Jim’s eyes as he tended to his mount.

“I want to.”

Jim reached up, finally managed to grab Éomer’s hand, his eyes widening as he noted the deep scratches along his leather greaves. Éomer jerked his hand away, but Jim had seen and was quick enough to snatch it back. “What the hell happened?”

Éomer snarled. “What does it matter? I can take care of myself… Lé—Jim.”

This time Éomer was able to twist his hand away from Jim, but in doing so he turned his face and Jim saw the scratches on his cheek. He rushed around Firefoot, hemmed Éomer in, his breath blowing out angrily. “You’re hurt, goddammit! That doesn’t look like you taking care of yourself!”

Jim traced the angry scratches on Éomer’s cheek. They were not deep and were already scabbed over. “What happened, ‘Mer?” Jim asked softly. “Please, tell me.” He pressed closer, forcing Éomer against the back of the stall.

Éomer pushed his hand against Jim’s chest, held him back. “Do not… it is nothing serious… merely a wildcat. We were too close to her den. She took exception and simply reminded me to stay away from her cubs.”

Jim glanced down at the palm resting over his heart before looking up and meeting Éomer’s eyes. He bit his lip. Éomer would not have been out riding if it had not been for him. He was the reason Éomer was injured. “And Firefoot? I know him. What has him in such a lather?”

Éomer ducked his head, wouldn’t meet Jim’s eyes. “We encountered things… dark things…”

“Forgive me, ‘Mer. I…”

“Nay! Just… stop.” He shook his head. “I was alone before you came. We had some fun and now it is time for you to leave to return to your life.”

Jim shoved Éomer’s hand aside and surged forward, their mouths were mere breaths apart as his eyes bored hotly into Éomer’s. “What if I said I do not wish to return? If I told you I want to stay?”

Éomer sucked in a harsh breath. He wavered. Jim could see it, felt the briefest brush of their lips before Éomer dropped his head back and it hit the wall of the stable. His eyes were a flat, dun brown, not the sparkling pine moss green Jim had grown to love. “You would be lying if you claimed that. Even now, here, when it is just you and I, your eyes… they give you away. You are… changed. Please do not make it harder than it already is.”

Jim watched Éomer, watched as his hands fluttered, felt the tension in his muscles, wanted to lick the little scar at the corner of his mouth, drag his teeth through the soft scruff of his beard, feel all that hair drag along his bare torso again. Jim’s nostrils flared. “I cannot change who I am but I would not lie to you.”

Jim shook his head, pressed forward, blanketed Éomer with his body, seized his lips and refused to be denied. He kept lapping at the soft flesh, nipping until Éomer breathed out and finally relented, opening to him. He leapt forward, pressed in, his tongue tasting and tangling as he lifted his hands, snagging Éomer’s as he raised them, fingers intertwined and groins aligned, forcing a moan from Éomer. He never wanted this to end, never wanted to stop touching, did not want to think about tomorrow and later. Jim could never remember anyone feeling so right, knowing him so well, able to take him apart, reduce him to a quivering mass with a simple sweep of large calloused hands over his spine.

The stall began to spin and Jim’s lungs were screaming for air, but he still refused to pull back. Firefoot shifted, his left flank knocked into them, forcing them apart. Jim glared at the stallion who was tossing his head, his large, brown eyes too knowing for Jim’s idea of docile, tame animals. The horses in Rohan were not the same as the horses he had known back in Georgia when Bones was teaching him to ride with finesse and style and not simply sheer determination.

Éomer threw his head back and laughed. “If I did not know better, I would think Firefoot is jealous!”

Jim glared and pushed the stallion’s hip away, releasing Éomer. “You think?”

Éomer’s eyes were dark, unreadable, but his lip quirked up and he leaned forward, grabbed Jim’s face and pulled it close, lapping at his full, lush lips. “Everyone envies me, wishes to _be_ me. I have had you, tasted you, felt you clench around me, swallowed the hiccup from your lungs as you reached your release. I know what you look like when sated and replete. I have tasted the salty sweet flavor of your seed and felt you fill me until I knew nothing but you.”

He stopped. The words dying on his lips, his eyes shuttered and his shoulders drooped, his head falling to rest on his chest. Jim watched reality intrude, knew when the realization returned, when the future they’d laughed and dreamed about under wide, starlit skies dissipated in a puff of smoke.

Jim couldn’t allow that to happen, not yet. He hadn’t left, didn’t know that he wanted to, not when he was here where everything felt so right; where duty and honor wasn’t tied up with the name Kirk, and love might be frowned upon, but it was revered, and allowed, not shunted aside in favor of career and service.

Reaching up, Jim covered Éomer’s hands with his own, kept them against his cheeks, grounded himself with the warm, calloused touch. “I am here, ‘Mer. I have not left. Please do not send me away.” He wanted to add _’before it is time’_ but he wasn’t that honest with himself, let alone Éomer. He wanted everything to remain as it had been when the world was bright, new, effortless. He bit back a sigh and closed his eyes before craning his neck just that little bit further and met warm, plush lips.

How Éomer had such soft lips when he spent his days in the baking sun and harsh winds of the plains Jim would never know, but he reveled in their press, the slight drag as his own lips met Éomer’s, his breath hitching as he tried not to think about never having this again. That was a thought best relegated to the darkest night once he was back on the _Enterprise._ He did not need to dwell on what he would not have, just what he had, right here and now.

And what he had was a gorgeous warrior, lips parted and kiss swollen, hard erection nudging his hip. Jim swallowed, inhaled through his nose and deliberately licked his lips, tasting Éomer, salt, sweat, and leather, and he allowed a weak moan to slip past his lips as his eyes fluttered closed. He knew what he was doing, knew it was nothing but a distraction. Still, he arranged their bodies, focused on how easy they were, how they had fit from the first, how, without thought or word, they’d found their way to each other, slotted into each other and never looked back.

He knew, yet he wanted, needed this. “Éomer,” he whimpered, his words ghosting over the soft fuzz on Éomer’s chin. “Please, not here. Your bed, your room?”

Éomer froze, his eyes opening. They were dark, but the brown had been displaced by the familiar and beloved green-gold under heavy lids. “M-my bed?”

In all the time they had been together, and for all the places they had made love or fucked like wild hares, they had never shared Éomer’s bed. It was flanked by Éowyn and Théodred’s rooms and the walls were flimsy, hastily erected when Théoden took in his sister’s children to rear, so there was no privacy, nothing of the sort. But Jim was asking for a defined purpose and Éomer’s lips thinned when he understood that reasoning.

Jim was leaving, but he would leave behind as much of himself as he could.

Éomer shuddered and nodded, said no words as he wrapped his arms around Jim, pulled him tightly to his chest and razed his mouth, plundered and took, claimed. Jim cried out as a wickedly teasing tongue first lapped at his neck, then a hot mouth circled and sucked, marking the skin high above the collar. There would be no more hiding, not this night. Time was too short for them to care.

“’Mer,” Jim gasped. He arched into the pleasure-pain and tried to pull away but was held fast, his whole body a mass of conflicting desires as sharp spikes sparked along his spine and his skin tingled and itched. He needed to move, needed to be pressed into a mattress and soon, or they’d be doing it here, to hell with the stable boys.

He tightened one hand around Éomer’s bicep, the other tangled in silky blond strands and tugged. “’Mer. Please?” he begged. “I can’t. Not… please?”

Éomer allowed himself to be pulled away, but he was licking his lips, his eyes dark and dangerous. Jim knew that gaze, knew what had happened each and every time Éomer had looked at him like that. Riding had been most unpleasant afterwards, but it had always been well worth it. Jim shook his head and smirked. “Bastard. You know what you’re doing to me, don’t you?”

He took two steps back and adjusted himself in his leggings as a knowing, altogether wicked grin curled Éomer’s lips. “Do not feign innocence with me, Lé… Jim.” He tripped over the name and Jim sighed.

Reaching out, he intertwined their hands and tugged Éomer out of the stall. “It’s Léoht, ‘Mer. It will always be Léoht, unless you deign to take back the name and the ink? Cast me out?”

Éomer’s eyes darkened and his brows furrowed. Jim hadn’t wanted to hurt him, but he had liked being Léoht, having someone that he was the whole world to, had drank in being Éomer’s, and he’d be damned if he was denied the pleasure of belonging so completely just yet.

Jim moved forward, pressed his lips to Éomer’s brow. “Tell me, ‘Mer. Would you have our time together be fraught with pain and grief or full of life, filled with what we do best, you and I?” He ran his beard down Éomer’s temple, brushed it over his cheek until he pressed it against Éomer’s lips.

Éomer smiled, despite himself, bit Jim’s chin before pulling away. “You will be the death of me, Léoht.”

They turned and began walking up the hill to the keep, their arms wrapped around each other’s waists. “But what a way to go!” Jim laughed, hoping his desperation was well disguised.

~~*~~

Jim decided it was a _glorious_ way to go, his limbs burning from exertion, his body sore, yet still not satiated from the previous hours’ delights.

He had never been reticent in his sexual escapades, had earned his reputation at the Academy and before, but that had all been so different than this. Here in Éomer’s bed and arms, he had found something deeper, a connection that resonated inside him, laid waste to the walls and defenses he’d built over the years, made him insecure and yet stronger, more certain than ever. The only thing that was puzzling? The feeling was familiar, the link tracing well-worn passageways in his heart and soul. And Jim, for all his bravado, for all his brashness, refused to examine the reason for that, kept pushing the rush of _known_ from overtaking the here and now.

Éomer sprawled beneath him completely bare and unashamed as Jim rode his cock, the words spilling from Éomer’s lips making Jim’s heart seize. At long last, he had said the words, reciprocated Jim’s feelings, but now Jim was leaving. He stuttered, his head trying to interfere to make him consider what he was doing and why, but he refused to listen once again.

Instead, he leaned down, settled more fully on the heavy, hard flesh impaling him, his lips sliding over Éomer’s chest and neck until he stopped, panting. He could taste Éomer, all senses were filled with him as time slowed, came to a stop. Jim inhaled, bit down on a pert nub, swallowed Éomer’s moan, and allowed his eyes to roam. He drank in his lover’s body, memorizing each freckle and scar, his hands sliding up and entwining their fingers even as his legs curled under Éomer’s thighs. They were linked, together, one and he never wanted to move, wanted to stay like this forever.

Éomer lifted his head, nudged Jim’s cheek, his smile beckoning, and Jim couldn’t resist. They kissed, languidly exploring and savoring. Jim refused to allow this to be mournful. It was a celebration and he was determined to create such strong memories, firmly rooted in all the senses that he would never forget this moment. He would have it to call upon when he was alone, would be able to remember the feeling of being utterly and completely loved and wanted.

Éomer knew Jim better than seemed possible, must have seen the longing in Jim’s eyes because he was suddenly thrust up into, a hard cock distracting him from dark thoughts. He smiled weakly and undulated his hips, a soft keening sound spilling from his lips as his cock was caught between them. “’Mer,” he gasped.

Jim’s hands were released and his hips taken in large, strong hands. He was held in a tight grip and firmly, easily lifted until his quivering entrance was stretched around the head of Éomer’s cock. Jim threw his head back and tried to push down, to sheath the pulsing flesh that was stretching him too wide, that pulled on his already well used hole, but Éomer manhandled him, kept him immobile.

“What do you want, Léoht? Tell me. Let me hear your pleas, convince me that you want this, want me, that you have earned my cock. Tell me,” Éomer demanded.

Jim shook his head and wailed, writhed, fisted his hands in the bedclothes. He pressed his knees to Éomer’s sides, anything to keep from revealing himself. “Fuck me, dammit!”

Éomer used his strength, even though Jim could feel his arms trembling from holding him up for so long. “Nay, Léoht. I will love you long and hard, but only if you plead.”

Jim shut his eyes, he couldn’t hold out looking into those eyes that revealed too much, gave him all he desired, but could not have. Still, he needed to come, needed the release that was clawing its way through his groin, wrecking his spine and finally, unable to contain it, the words tumbled out. “Please, you bastard! Impale me. Use me, mark me, make me yours so that I never forget, so that I have this in the dark hours before dawn, so that I’ll never forget you, goddammit!”

Jim’s heart nearly ruptured when Éomer slammed him down, impaled him fully before sitting up and pulling them chest to chest, their lips meeting as they grappled, their arms wrapping around each other, clinging as their long denied releases exploded from them, obliterating the world and their fears, if only for the briefest of moments.

When sensation returned to Jim he found himself tucked up against Éomer’s side, strong arms holding him and a steady heartbeat thrumming in his ear. He was safe and loved, cared for, and no matter how far he traveled, he would always have this memory.

Éomer’s fingers traced the swirling black ink at the base of his spine as his lips pressed into Jim’s forehead. “I love you, bright eyes,” he whispered into Jim’s hair, the words ghosting over him, settling into his skin, wrapping him tighter.

Jim couldn’t answer, the lump in his throat was too large and he knew if he opened his mouth, the tears streaming down his face would turn into racking sobs. He refused to cheapen this moment with overwrought emotions. Nodding, he pressed his face into a warm chest, both of them ignoring the growing wetness.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

*~*

 _Out of doubt, out of dark, to the day's rising  
he rode singing in the sun, sword unsheathing.  
Hope he rekindled, and in hope ended;  
over death, over dread, over doom lifted  
out of loss, out of life, unto long glory.  
 **The Lord of the Rings**  
Éomer's Song, in 'Many Partings'_

*~*

Jim woke slowly, blinked and closed his eyes tightly. He should be sleeping. He curled around Éomer, tangled their legs together and refused to contemplate how short their time together grew. He inhaled Éomer’s scent, the flavor of their long and desperate love-making heavy on his tongue. He bit back a sigh, determined not to dwell on anything but the man he was wrapped around.

Sleep was futile, so Jim opened his eyes. The nearly full moon was setting, and its light shone through the open shutters, crept across the stone floor and settled upon Éomer’s back. Jim shifted to his elbow and stroked a hand over the burnished skin until his palm settled, covered the black, swirling ink at the base of Éomer’s spine. The abstract whorls evoked a horse at full gallop, rider spurring it on. He wore those same marks, their placement, the whole initiation ceremony, had moved him as little had in his life. He had walked into the hall a mere man and had walked out an Eorlingas, a Rider, like Éomer, part of something greater than himself. It reminded him of the day he received his commission, when he had relieved Pike.

His wistful sigh disturbed Éomer and the man blinked blearily at Jim. “Léoht?” he mumbled.

“Shhh, I’m here, ‘Mer. Sleep, love. I’ve got you.” Jim kissed Éomer, tucked his head into Jim’s shoulder and hummed softly, a quiet almost tuneless Vulcan air. Éomer quickly drifted off, his breathing slowing until he was fully at rest once again.

Jim stroked his hands through the long blond mane, holding onto the heavy weight before allowing it to slip away. There was not enough time and he had to stop himself from waking Éomer. They’d barely slept for an hour, but Jim found he could not sleep, not with his heart quietly shattering.

Jim looked at the sky, watched the moon’s inexorable progress toward the horizon. The sun would rise soon, bathing the plains in fiery golden light and it would be time to leave. Jim bit his lip, refusing to let another tear fall. He had shed his last one. Instead he talked, soft and low, his words barely audible as he revealed himself, told Éomer of the _Enterprise,_ of the stars, of his home and people.

The words became his confession as he bared his soul, opened up, told Éomer of his hopes and fears, how Jim had fallen for the Riddermark and its people, how he would never tarnish their world, diminish its ethereal magic with his shiny starship and alien technology. His voice grew hoarse, harsh, and Éomer stirred.

He turned and stretched languidly, his limbs warm and supple under Jim’s palms. As he blinked slowly awake, Jim could not resist his slightly confused smile. He leaned down and kissed the soft lips, pressing gently. The kiss was short and achingly sweet. Éomer sighed contentedly before pulling Jim more tightly against his chest. “What were you saying, Léoht? Just now. What secrets did you share whilst I slept?” he whispered.

“Not secrets. Truths.” Jim took the chance and buried himself fully into Éomer’s strong embrace, pressed his lips to his skin. “I was telling you of my home… wishing that we were not to be parted.”

Éomer’s hands ran down Jim’s back, slowly caressing and holding tenderly, as though Jim would disappear if he clung too tightly. His lips pressed to Jim’s head and he huffed out a soft breath. “I want the same, but our duty cannot be denied.”

He was resigned to their fate and Jim nodded. The small part of him that was still a child wanted to scream and shout, to rail at the unfairness of it all – that they had found each other at last, were perfect together, but were being denied. He sucked in a shaky breath, almost begged aloud. Éomer would not make him leave. But he knew better. He could not stay, could not live this life. It was not his to live.

With his palm splayed wide on Jim’s back and his lips buried in Jim’s hair, Éomer’s words were indistinct, but Jim still heard them. “Your healer, your ‘Bones’… he will watch over you. He will take care of you.”

Jim sighed, unsure how to answer truthfully. Even if Éomer had not phrased it as a question, he did not trust Bones. “He is my best friend. He will be there for me, ‘Mer.”

“Just not as you wish and deserve.” Éomer’s disapproval rang out in those simple words.

“No, but I have no choice and neither do you. We were a cruel trick of fate, a meeting that should not have been…”

“Nay! I’ll not believe that the fates are so capricious! You were sent here, brought to me for a purpose, a reason I may not fathom now when my heart is torn asunder, but I will hold on and live to see the day when the design becomes plain.”

Jim’s heart leapt to his throat at Éomer’s declaration. He was struck silent by the courage, the strength of will and the steadfast heart of his lover. He wondered when he had earned such a one as Éomer.

“Then have this, to remind you that there is a purpose greater than you or I know.” Jim twisted his Starfleet Academy ring off his finger and pressed it into Éomer’s palm.

Éomer’s eyes grew wide and then they closed for a brief moment, the loss in them near unbearable. “I love you, Éomer of the – ” his words were cut off as Éomer seized his lips, plundered his mouth, silencing further words. No more needed to be said. They knew each other, well and truly, and Éomer loved him one last time; took him until Jim knew nothing but Éomer’s hands, mouth, and cock, until there was nothing but them; until their worlds, the wide plains and infinite stars were no more. He was marked inside and out, visibly, and not, but his soul was changed. _He_ was changed – had been loved fully and completely and finally, knew himself worthy of that love.

~~*~~

The day dawned clear and bright, not one cloud smudging the bright, endless sky. Éomer turned his face away from the vista and shifted in his saddle, his face impassive as Firefoot struggled to stay still. His mount was skittish, restless, had obviously gleaned his master’s pained mood and horse and rider side-stepped, moved forward, skittered back, caught in an agitated dance as they waited.

Spock and McCoy were mounted behind Haldad and Garulf, but Éowyn had kept Jim back. They were talking in the stables, his sister’s eyes too knowing for his liking, but Éomer could give no argument without revealing more than he cared to. He and Jim had said their farewells, had loved each other long and deeply, each shedding more than a single tear, but neither speaking of their wet cheeks. Their shared grief was suffocating, deep and dark, and Éomer took no comfort in knowing the truth about Jim and ‘Bones’, took no solace in knowing that his lover would be as alone as he.

Before he could call out in impatience, demand that Éowyn release Jim from her clutches, so that they could start what would be his longest ride, Erkenbrand and a group of Riders from the Wold clattered through the gates. In the ensuing chaos, Firefoot surged forward, blocking the path of a solitary Rider. His mare shied away, stepped back, and the man fought to get her back under control, his voluble cursing forced a smile to Éomer’s lips.

At least the distraction kept Éomer from thinking of the parting that was to come. He gleefully tore off his helm, wanted an excuse to lash out at someone. The man did the same, at almost exactly the same moment. Éomer’s face froze, the rant dying on his lips as he was greeted by an all too familiar face, those same full lips and intense blue eyes, which were narrowed and drawn together, pulled into a dark scowl at him.

The swearing stopped when the man recognized his rank, when he realized who he had been about to tell off and the silence stretched awkwardly, only their mounts moving, suddenly circling, their muzzles touching, rubbing as they shifted closer, the mare and stallion drawn to each other, just as Éomer could not stop staring at the man before him, his eyes wide with shock.

Théodred cleared his throat, dragging Éomer’s attention away from the abashed younger man.

When Éomer turned he was met by Théodred laughing aloud and he grimaced, could find no words as a hot flush crept up his neck.

Théodred knew him far too well and maneuvered Brego alongside Firefoot, who was skillfully ignoring Éomer’s attempts to pull him away from the mare.

“And who might you be, friend?” Théodred let the smile on his face and eyes counter his booming voice which only served to make Éomer cringe further.

The man’s wide eyes flitted between Théodred and Éomer, he could not choose a man to answer as his mouth worked, but no words were making it past his lips.

“Cousin! Enough. Can you not see that…” Éomer paused, tilted his head to the blue-eyed man, encouraging him to speak up.

“Ceorl, Highness… m’Lord! I am Ceorl of Lifman, newly recruited into the Eorlingas!” he near shouted with relief when he found his voice.

And Éomer was completely and utterly smitten, his voice vanishing in the process.

Théodred just grinned wolfishly. “Well met, Ceorl of Lifman. It is good to have new blood amongst our ranks.” He shifted Brego aside and, bowing, waved Ceorl along after the other Riders. “I am certain that Erkenbrand will see you barracked and settled, but do not wander far. I suspect that our Third Marshall will want to interview you when we return.”

Ceorl swallowed and he bowed his head, “Aye, Sire. Thank you, Highness. It is truly an honor to be chosen to serve.” Though he was nervous and a sheen of sweat glistened on his brow, he managed a proper salute before pulling his mare away. She refused and Éomer found his smile, his heart suddenly less black.

“Here, let me help. She will go when Firefoot stops blocking her.” Éomer tugged on the reins, nudged Firefoot away, but the stallion refused until he was quietly informed that he would be seeing the mare again, but only if he allowed her to pass now.

Firefoot side-stepped, let the mare by and Éomer was given a blinding smile that left him blinking and a bit dazed as he watched Ceorl ride away. “Thank you, my Lord. I look forward to our talk.”

“As do I, Ceorl of Lifman.”

Éomer saluted and was still smiling when Jim and Hasufel rode up. He blinked at Éomer and returned the soft smile, his head cocked in question.

“I will tell you along the way, if you tell me what no good my sister was up to.”

Jim chuckled, “Deal.” They nudged the horses into an easy canter, picking up speed once they were out of the city walls.

The ride was over too soon and Éomer regretted not saying more, rued that he did not more fully admit how painful this was, that he was not a man of words and could not find the right ones when they were so desperately needed.

Spock and McCoy were talking to another one of their number and the rest of the Eorlingas were clustered a discreet distance holding the horses and waiting patiently. Éomer swallowed, cupped Jim’s cheek, raked his thumb through the soft fuzz there. “Léoht,” he started, stopping when Jim pressed a finger to his lips.

Jim shook his head, their eyes met. No words would do this moment justice. They’d already said all that they had to say, already shared their fears and hopes, now they must let go, release each other to whatever their futures held.

Éomer gave Jim a curt nod, tried to step away, but found that he couldn’t, that his arms were already aching for want of this man. He surged forward, smashed their mouths and limbs together as he stole one last gasp of Jim’s breath, one last taste, one last glimpse into those blue depths.

They were both gasping for breath when they separated. “Go, Léoht. May Eru protect and guide you.”

“Live long and prosper, Éomer, and know that I will never forget you, not for all my days.”

“Nor I you.”

Éomer wrenched himself away and vaulted into Firefoot’s saddle without turning around. He had agreed to ride away, to leave them here on the plains without a backward glance. He had promised Jim that, had given his word and he did not once turn, though his heart ached and was sore.

Éomer of Rohan rode away and never saw the shimmering lights, never knew the truth about Léoht, never once suspected that his lover had been from the stars they both loved to watch.

~~*~~

Jim stared at the stars on the viewscreen, tried to seem interested and not bored, or worse, appear to be daydreaming. He leaned his chin on his hand, his elbow pressing into the arm of his chair, the _captain’s chair_ , a chair that had fit perfectly when he’d first sat in it, but no longer. He breathed deeply the recycled, pure air, biting back a sigh. It smelled of… nothing.

There was no scent of horse or dung, no aroma of roasting meats, no stench from unwashed bodies and animals pressed too close, no odor of campfire or grassfire, not a hint of the bouquet of the wildflowers blanketing the plains, and no spice in the air, no leather, horse, and armor mingling with the subtle fragrance of Éomer. There was no metallic bite as lightning rent the sky, not a whiff of fresh, baking bread, or the invigorating smell of the brisk, washed plains after a wild storm. This air was empty, sterile, as hollow as Jim felt.

Jim’s eyes swept the bridge, lingered on his crew, their faces intent and eager, enjoying each moment of their jobs, just as he had. Before. But now, now he was returned and had even less than before. At least before the Riddermark, he had had Bones’ friendship. Now, that had vanished with his lost memories and had not returned. Somehow he had failed Bones and he couldn’t fix it.

Before the Mark, before Éomer, truthfully, Jim had lingered on the bridge, welcomed shift change so that he could converse and interact with all of his crew, make sure they all knew him and he knew them. No more. Now he was eager to leave, in a hurry to hide in his quarters and mourn a life that he had never been entitled to, but yet dreamed of.

While the decision to return had not been easy, it had been the right thing to do. He had his ship, his duty, his friends. Bones. But now, ever since they’d returned, he didn’t have Bones. Not his support, his presence, nothing. Just official business conducted via the comm channels. And that hurt most of all.

Tonight he swallowed the shot of bourbon and even that did nothing to ease the ache in his chest. He couldn’t take it any longer. Squaring his shoulders, James T. Kirk came out of hiding and strode to his CMO’s door.

Jim lifted his hand to the chime, but hesitated. He had never hesitated, had never bothered to even chime for entry before. This was _Bones_ for God’s sake! Still, his stomach was churning wildly and his palms were sweaty. He knew he’d worked himself up into a ‘state’ as Bones would say, but what the hell did anyone expect? Bones had been avoiding him. For two fucking weeks and it ended _now._

That flash of anger and hurt steeled Jim’s spine and he entered the code without pressing the call button first. The last thing he wanted was to warn Bones that he was here. Bones knew him too well, knew how to avoid him. If he suspected that Jim was coming to talk, he would manufacture an excuse to go to Medical and be gone in a flash. Again.

Bones was sitting on his sofa, bottle of bourbon on the end table, a nearly empty glass in his hands. “Jim!” His head shot up, and in that moment, Jim ached for him, for the dark smudges under his eyes, the lines that had settled into his face. He looked beat down, heart sore and tired, and Jim hadn’t seen him like this since he first met Bones on that shuttle.

“Dammit! Can’t you knock?” Bones’ usual gruff growl was worn down, his voice booze roughened and weary.

Jim swallowed, turned back to the door and locked it with his override. Bones could get out if he wanted to, but it’d take time and Jim wasn’t going to let him leave until they’d finished this. Whatever the hell _this_ was.

“What the fuck? Goddammit, Jim!” Bones lifted the bottle, eyed it warily, then tipped two fingers into his glass.

Jim’s hand shot out and grabbed the glass, then the bottle. Bones’ slack grip was testament to how long he’d been drinking and Jim took them away from him easily. “You’ve had enough, Bones. I wanted you sober for this, but, apparently, you’re only sober when on duty.” Jim didn’t mean for his voice to sound so bitter, so accusing, but he couldn’t help it. He was hurt and angry and, dammit, he deserved to know what was going on.

“Fuck you! Are you planning to write me up? My performance is above reproach and you damn well know it!” Bones didn’t reach for the bottle and glass but he eyed them and looked up at Jim, anger and something else that Jim couldn’t read radiating from him.

“This isn’t an ‘official’ call. This is _me_ , Bones. Jim, not the Captain.” Jim dropped onto the sofa, his legs felt like jelly, when Bones didn’t offer him a seat. This was all wrong, everything stilted and angry between them.

Bones wouldn’t even meet his eyes, and Jim sighed. Bones wasn’t going to make this easy. “Talk to me. You’ve been avoiding me… why?” Jim’s voice cracked and he bit his cheek to force back the lump in his throat. Of all the people in his life, Bones had never once deserted him.

Jim ached from all that happened, all that he had given up for duty, and he’d needed someone to talk to, needed some support so that he didn’t wallow in grief, but his supposed best friend had vanished on him. The _Enterprise_ wasn’t a large ship, but Bones had proved quite skillful at never being alone with Jim since they’d beamed up.

The silence stretched on, with Bones sitting stiff-backed on the sofa, his hands twitching in his lap as he stared straight ahead.

“Goddammit, Bones! Don’t do this to me! Just tell me what I did so I can fix it!” He was almost begging and he barely caught himself. Jim gripped the arm of the sofa, his fingernails digging into the fabric.

“Don’t do this to _you_?” Bones asked, quietly, so low and broken Jim almost missed the question over the roaring in his own ears.

“Bones?” Jim was so confused, his head was spinning. Bones didn’t sound angry, just deeply sad. “What happened? What did I do?”

Bones’ throat was working overtime. Jim watched intently as he struggled to find the words. Finally, he turned. His eyes were dry, but red rimmed. “You would have _stayed_ if you could, if you didn’t love the _Enterprise_ just a little bit more than that mother fuckin’ Horse-lord.” Bones’ voice was laden with bitterness, his accusation stung for the truth in it.

Jim swallowed and lifted his chin. He wasn’t going to lie to Bones. “I didn’t come back solely for the _Enterprise_. I know my duty, knew I didn’t belong there…” he choked at the sudden realization that he was no longer sure he belonged anywhere. Certainly not here. Not when Bones was looking at him like he’d betrayed them all.

Bones’ face hardened. “So you came back for duty?” he sneered. “Typical. You and your fuckin’ ego! You think you’re the only one that can be a hero, the only one that can save us all!”

Jim’s stomach churned. He swallowed back the bile, bit his lip, and kept his nails buried deeply in the sofa. Bones was baiting him, pushing him. Wanted him to fight back. “Fuck you! I don’t know what your problem is, but you’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

Bones’ nostrils flared and he stood unsteadily, stalking away from Jim. He faced the wall, pressed his palms flat as he rested his head against the smooth surface. “Goddammit, Jim. Just go! Maybe you can ask Scotty to send you back. That’s what you want. We’ll manage without you.”

Bones’ voice was resigned and he slumped against the wall. He was anything but alright. They were going in circles, pushing and pulling, lashing out, but never letting go, and they weren’t getting anywhere. Jim took a slow, steadying breath, pried his fingers from the sofa and stood up. He wasn’t leaving until he knew what the hell had happened.

Jim approached Bones slowly, warily, almost as though he were a wild stallion that needed gentling. He stopped before they touched, but he was close, so close that he caught a whiff of Bones’ aftershave. Taking a slow deep breath, Jim tasted Bones on his tongue, the tang of antiseptic and the honey warmth of bourbon was so familiar, so right.

He had been wrong. The air here was not sterile or empty. Not when Bones was nearby.

Jim reached out a shaky hand and cupped Bones’ chin, forcing him to turn. The eyes that met his were raw slashes of cedar green, so filled with pain that it took his breath away. In that moment, Jim knew, realized what Bones had kept from him all these years.

“I don’t want to go back, Bones,” he answered, softly, a bare whisper of words on the recycled air. Jim was terrified that he was wrong, that his own feelings had clouded his eyes, but he couldn’t go back, not after tasting and knowing what it felt like to be loved so fully. “I want to be here with you. I came back… _for you._ ”

“You sure about that, kid? You sure I’m not just a pale imitation of your leather-clad warrior?” Bones reached up, wrapped his long fingers around Jim’s wrist, didn’t push or pull, just rested them on his skin, warmth soaking into Jim.

Jim only nodded because he couldn’t force out any words past the lump in his throat.

“I need to hear you say it, Jim. It’s just…” Bones stopped speaking, as he stumbled over the words. He took a deep shuddering breath, his hand tightening on Jim’s wrist. “I never allowed myself to _believe_ , not before… thought I’d lost you and then there you were. Eyes so fuckin’ bright. Bluer than that endless sky overhead and there _he_ was… wearing my face, looking at you like you were the rarest of treasures. I died when he kissed you, knew that I’d missed my chance.”

Bones swallowed and met Jim’s eyes, was begging to be interrupted, but Jim needed to hear the words, too. So he waited.

“I need to hear you say the words, Jim. I swore you weren’t going to come back and I… I can’t do this halfway, can’t be a substitute. I can’t face you, knowin’ you’d rather be there with him than here with me.”

Jim’s whole body shuddered as Bones’ admission obliterated his fears, broke the dam that he had kept his feelings hidden behind. He reached out, grabbed Bones’ face in both hands and pressed their lips together hungrily. Bones gasped and Jim dove in, swept his tongue over the beloved full lips, tasted and teased, until he claimed Bones’ mouth fully, not bothering to breathe, never wanting to surface again.

Bones clutched his biceps, moaned into the kiss and Jim swallowed every sound, every sigh, every murmur greedily, Bones clinging tight enough to bruise, but Jim didn’t care. He was home and safe and where he belonged, finally. Nothing else mattered, the whole damn ship could explode around him and Jim didn’t care. Didn’t even notice being urged backward, gently impelled toward the sofa.

He felt his knees hit the cushions and he dropped and twisted, forcing Bones onto his back so that Jim could align their torsos. He wrapped himself around Bones like a blanket, their mouths parting only briefly to suck in small gasps of air before returning. They shifted and jostled until they were fused together from lips to groin, as tightly as possible, nothing between them.

His screaming lungs forced him to pull away, but he didn’t move far. He couldn’t bear to. Bones was near boneless beneath him, in an untidy sprawl, his hair wild from Jim’s frantic hands and his lips swollen from the hard kisses. Jim’s heart thundered as Bones looked up at him, his eyes wide with wonder and no little fear. Jim soothed him with a tender kiss.

“I love you, Leonard H. McCoy. I might have forgotten this life, but I hadn’t forgotten _you._ I was there for six months, Bones. Lost, alone, couldn’t remember anything, not even my own name. It could have been hell, but Éomer took care of me, like you always have. I couldn’t help myself – he wore your face.”

“But… you gave him your ring!” Bones hadn’t let go of his fears, not completely, even as he fought to hold onto hope.

“I love you in any universe, Bones, and yeah, if there’d been no you here, I probably wouldn’t have come back. Don’t you see? I came back thinking you were completely and utterly out of reach, but I came back because having you as my best friend was better than not having you at all.”

Bones was silent, his lips parted in a quiet ‘oh’.

Jim chuckled, his heart light. He sucked in Bones’ lower lip, smiled as he heard Bones’ hastily indrawn breath. But he didn’t stay passive, not for long. This was Bones after all, and Jim went down easily as he was tackled and flattened into the sofa, Bones’ body covering his and Bones’ mouth latching onto his neck.

Jim arched and writhed, moaning from the heady pleasure-pain. He tried to gain the upper hand, but Bones’ kept him pinned, especially when he cheated by grinding their clothed erections together.

Finally Bones lifted his head, his lips were swollen, red, his eyes dark and he was smiling, brilliantly, like the dual suns on Xavo III. “Now explain the tattoo,” he growled possessively.

Jim smirked. He rather enjoyed seeing Bones like this, but Bones had other ideas. He dropped his head and pressed his lips to Jim’s ear. “You’ll tell or you’ll be wearing a cock ring for three days – not allowed to come _while_ I fuck you into the mattress, darlin’.”

Jim shivered, his whole body trembling with desire. “Fuck!” Jim gave up and shrugged, trying to make it no big deal, but it was and he knew it. He remembered the sting of the needle at the base of his spine, couldn’t forget the way Éomer tended the healing swirls, the way he would lap at it and send Jim into a tailspin of desire.

He licked his lips and smiled tentatively. “He gave me a home when I needed it, Bones. Said no matter what happened that I was a Rider and would always have a home in the Mark.”

Bones nipped at Jim’s neck and he couldn’t restrain the soft sigh as his body welcomed Bones’ every touch. He threw his arms over Bones’ neck, pulled him close, breathed in the familiar, beloved scent of home. “But my home is here, with you. There’s no where else I’d be.”

Bones kissed him then, reverently, almost as though he’d never believed that they could be like this. “Home is where you are, Jim. Always… but…”

Jim stiffened, “But?”

Bones looked at him, wistful and hopeful. “But,” he stressed. “I can wait for you. Take what time you need…” He swallowed, his nostrils flaring, his brow furrowing as his jaw tensed. “You need to heal.”

Jim threw his arms around Bones’ neck and pulled him down, whispered against his lips, “Bones, quit over thinking this. I’m fine. I have you.”

Bones resisted the pull, did not complete the kiss, his breath warm against Jim’s skin. “But you loved him.”

“And I love you.” He surged up, pressed their lips together, silencing any further arguments.

The End


End file.
